


The Sound of Poisons

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Case Fic, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, S4 alternative, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7887625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A string of unexplained deaths grabs the detective's attention and threatens those closest to him. Soon Sherlock finds he must fight the threat of Culverton Smith while batting a deeper struggle. Third person POV that shifts from Sherlock to John. Set after “The Abominable Bride,” and an AU fix-it for season 4.</p><p>John’s phone vibrated on the table. He could just eek out the text from where he sat. He checked the time. 10:34. He was surprised it took Sherlock this long.</p><p>    Bring over milk and bicarbonate soda. AND my coat. SH </p><p>John half smiled, then frowned. There was a time that Sherlock would have written “bring home” instead of “bring over.”</p><p>Beta Chapters 1-13 by Lieutenant Wolf<br/>Latest chapters unbeta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Corrosive Effect of Lactic Acid

**Author's Note:**

> “Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?  
> This is rain now, this big hush.  
> And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.”  
> \--Sylvia Plath from “Elms

John’s phone vibrated on the table. He could just eek out the text from where he sat. He checked the time. 10:34. He was surprised it took Sherlock this long.

 

> _Bring over milk and bicarbonate soda. AND my coat. SH_

John half smiled, then frowned. There was a time that Sherlock would have written “bring home” instead of “bring over.” Still to be cliche, some things never changed. It was just expected that John Watson attend to one, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock could wait. John watched his young patient swing her legs off the examination table as her mom helped her hop down. John gave them some final words of instructions and along with added words of comfort, reminding her mother to take a deep breath. Allergic reactions in children were always scary, but he reassured the mother that the child would be fine.

 

> _Taking my coat will not keep me tethered here. SH_

He finished the orders before picking up the phone and tapping in a one finger response.

 

> _No, but taking your shoes might suffice._

Sherlock’s reply popped up almost immediately after John’s finger left send.

 

> _Yes, yes, but I fail to see how taking my personal property is required for my compliance. SH_
> 
> _You’re lecturing me on taking personal property?_
> 
> _You took all of my shoes, both coats and Mrs. Hudson refuses to return them to me. SH_
> 
> _You do realize that one of my left coat pockets contains information vital to the security of Scotland Yard. SH_
> 
> _That’s rich!! How are biscuits and Jelly Babies vital to Scotland Yard?!!_
> 
> _Added exclamation points serve no purpose and the interrobang makes any point you are trying to convey irrational and insufferable. SH_
> 
> _When someone wants a favor, it’s best not to insult that person._
> 
> _Retrieve my shoes and coat, or I will walk to Tesco in my slippers and bathrobe. SH_
> 
> _You’re concussed you twit. You need to stay in bed. No experiments. Rest. I saw biscuits in the cabinet if you must get out of bed. Eat those. I’ll visit after work and bring the baking soda and milk if you must have something to do later._

He knew that Sherlock would never deign to muck around the aisles at Tesco. More like go to Bart’s or down to the Yard to pester Lestrade.

\------------------

It hurt to think; therefore, he must do something. He could complete the lactic acid experiment, bother Lestrade about possible tedious cases, go troll Bart’s, or text John.

John.

He’d ignored that taunting emotion for so long, but it was when Moriarty tried to burn it out that he realized how ineffectual that shell over his heart was. While he projected a cold, stiff continence, Moriarty saw the affecting weakness. He’d discerned what Doctor John Watson was to Sherlock Holmes.

Fleeting smiles, brief touches, kind words broke him, but John was not at fault; he was simply being John. It was his own fault, although taking blame was hardly something he’d ever dare admit aloud. Yet, it fell like some external judgement had been thrust upon him and stole inside--a travesty of justice--that the hollow space surrounding his heart thawed so completely when it came to one John Watson. How could he be blamed? What he’d done in the past that was so, so successful hadn’t worked with John. He’d struggled to keep him separate. Mycroft had warned him, but by then is was too late--John came too close. Where Sherlock had distanced others, his acrid tongue forcing them to take a step back. What had John done? John had stepped forward. However, being too close was dangerous to all parties. John understood that but, no, brave-soldier-John had never looked back. John embraced that danger, and their shared uncertainty bled into Sherlock’s heart.

He knew he was selfish to want to keep John. Until Mary, he’d managed to distance John from every woman John came in contact with, telling himself John was essential to the success of solving cases. Then Mary came to fill the void he’d left, and Sherlock was grateful to Mary for filling that void. She gave John purpose.

Yet almost as if it was part of Moriarty’s design, those marital vows burned the heart out of Sherlock. But Sherlock welcomed this pain. She had John now, but the truth remained that Mary saved them both from each others fondest weakness--they both loved danger. What damage would they do to each other if they were ever truly united and tested the limits? There were still moments that Sherlock remained vulnerable: He’d tried to tell John how he felt on the tarmac, but instead told he John that Sherlock is a girl’s name instead of naming his heart.

He felt pathetic sometimes in the face of affection. Even the drugs couldn’t still the ache in his chest. Although Mycroft watched what drugs he took at times he didn't watch too carefully.

Love. A most disparaging emotion. So fleeting and often wanting. Leaching into the chest right into to his heart. The shell that once protected him from the world now permeable. He spent all those hours, years building that barrier.

Being bored only exacerbated the pain.

 

 

> _Bored. SH_
> 
> _Bored. Bored. Bored. SH_
> 
> _Yes, I gathered that, Sherlock. You need rest. You’ve been in hospital twice in the last week. Stay in bed. Get rest._
> 
> _Still bored. SH_
> 
> _I have at least ten other patients to tend to. Will come after I finish here._

John spent most of the afternoon looking after patients, ignoring Sherlock’s texts, and worrying about Mary’s prolonged morning sickness. He’d phoned and texted her several times during the day, but she hadn’t picked up or replied. She’s finally answered with apologies: _I’m sorry, I was napping, don’t worry so_! To which John was relieved. She hadn’t been sleeping well the last week, and along with the constant vomiting, he was beginning to become concerned, not that he dare say much to Mary. She would tell him he not to fret and that he knows that this is normal for many women. But to John, Mary wasn’t just any woman. He was his wife for Christ’s sake. That’s why he went directly to Tesco’s after and did some fast shopping, berating himself all the way to Baker Street for still bowing to Sherlock’s whims. He popped his head in to congratulate Mrs. Hudson for keeping Sherlock’s shoes and coat away from him the whole day and told her to continue on indefinitely until he told her differently (“In that case, it’s best not to even let him in the door,” she’d relied), then made his way up the stairs.

He was on the top step when he heard the crash.

“Sherlock! Are you alright!” John flung the door open and stepped back. Sherlock stood in the kitchen with a mess of clotted milk at his feet, and the counters cluttered with various sizes and types of metal cans filled with milk. “I’m _not_ cleaning this up, and... I told you stay in bed--not that I should expect you’d ever listen to one word I’d ever say.”

John set the bag on the floor away from the mess. Sherlock looked pale and drawn--the dark circles under his eyes making him look more manic than usual.

“Good, you brought what I asked,” Sherlock said, tapping his bare foot against the bag on the floor.

John shook his head. His friend wasn’t taking care of himself--not that he ever did. John didn’t like the look of his eyes. His pupils were blown wide open. First the drug over dose, then after Mycroft had sent them off to find the source of the Moriarty transmission, Sherlock’s reward was a crack in the head with a lamp from a woman in housekeeping at _Techwood One_ , or as John referred to it, _Torchwood One._ John told Sherlock he didn’t think the tip Mycroft gave them regarding what John referred to as “that spooky-do place” made sense since it involved biotechnology not technology, and Sherlock started to explain, _in depth_ , current advances in the biotechnological sciences and that this was something that Moriarty could easily use for ill _(yes_ , John said, _I know what biotech science entails, and we are breaking and entering, so I don’t think it needs explaining now_ ). A few seconds later, Sherlock’s parietal bone met the brass lamp and blood was pooled around his head on the floor, reminding John of another time. Now that was a “spooky-do” moment. John then dragged Sherlock outside of a building with an hysterical woman screaming behind them per Mycroft’s instructions (minus the hysterical housekeeper) since they weren’t supposed to be inside. Mycroft had already called for an ambulance, and John pretended Sherlock had fallen on the sidewalk in front of said building. Blood covered his hand as he worked to stop blood the flow, but it still spread across the pavement. It was the nightmare John had relived again and again.

John shook his head again and looked closer at Sherlock. “How is your head? When was the last time you ate? How much have you taken for the pain, or should I ask what have you taken?”

“John, please refrain from acting like mother. You know I hate that,” Sherlock said. ”And I’ve not taken anything I’d have to make a list for, if that’s what concerns you.”

John leaned against the counter, careful not to bump a particularly large pail of curdled milk.

“I brought you actual food,” John said, “and _fresh_ milk to drink, not to make bloody cottage cheese out of.”

“I’m not making cottage cheese,” Sherlock explained. “It’s a simple experiment on how much soda is needed to neutralize the corrosive effect of lactic acid on various metal containers.”

“And the reason you need to know this NOW is...”

“The timeliness of this particular experiment is immaterial. The boredom I currently face, however, is not.”

“Don’t you think you could choose experiments to fill your time that are less smelly, and... well...less messy?”

“Those rotting intestines smelled much worse.”

“Yeah, that was a bit not good.”

As he watched Sherlock teeter back and forth on unsteady legs, John sighed and thrust his hands in his pockets, resigned that he’d have to clean up the mess himself. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arm and pulled him toward his room. Thankfully Sherlock didn’t have the strength to pull away.

“Let’s get you back to bed. And don’t tell me you feel fine since you look like rubbish.”

“I have never looked like rubbish a single day in my life, not even when I fall into rubbish do I look like rubbish. I’ll tell you what _is_ rubbish: Treating me like I’m one of your patients.”

“You _are_ one of my patients,” John said. “You are always one of my patients. You like it when I treat you like one of my patients. Sometimes it feels as if you are my ONLY patient. Now follow my orders for once in your life and get in bed.” John took a deep breath. “And stop arching that eyebrow at me like I’m Mycroft ordering you about. I am not.”

It took all of an hour to get Sherlock settled, clean up the mess in the kitchen, and make Sherlock a bite to eat. It took another hour to get Sherlock to eat the omelette and drink a glass of fresh milk. By the time John got back to the apartment to Mary, he was more than bone weary, and Mary was already in bed.

Thankfully, she was not asleep.

“How was your day, Love? Any better?” he asked.

“The tummy feels better at the moment. I think little Sherlock maybe settling down a bit.”

“Don’t even joke about that name.”

“I’m not joking,” she said.

“Sherlock would be insufferable if we named the baby after him.”

“He’s already insufferable, darling.”

John slapped his pillow and turned it over. “Let’s talk about this again when I’m not so knackered. Maybe sometime after I haven’t just cleaned up after him or waited hand and foot on his majesty or made sure he hadn’t poisoned himself with some foul experiment.”

“Oh, Love, that day may never come.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. A sane person would be happy for that day to come. A same person would count down the days until that day came. But not John. He wasn’t a sane person when it came to Sherlock Holmes, was he?

Deep down inside John wished for that day to never come.

 


	2. This Is the Rain Now

Earlier that day at Hyde Park two women sat on a bench, knees touching as they huddled close, heads bowed partly in conversation and partly to stay dry from the drizzle since the English Oak trees afforded limited protection.

“Why I left without an umbrella, I don’t know,” Irene laughed. “I really have no excuse, but you? Other things on your mind I imagine. Morning sickness? You look a bit pale.”

“The last few weeks have been the worst--all day long between the bed and the bathroom. John’s beside himself.”

“Yes, well, he’s the doting type. A doctor’s nature, I suppose. A good bedside manner,” she winked. “He did take good care of Sherlock after you shot him.”

Mary shoved her left hand in her pocket and crossed her legs. “Look, I know it’s been a while, and I do love all of this small talk, but you did say it was important we spoke privately, and Sherlock’s health isn’t what we came to discuss. That ‘incident’ is a part of my life I’d rather forget, and John likes to pretend it never happened.” 

“Life is filled with choices,” Irene smiled, looking at her bright-red nails. “Some we regret and some we cherish.”

“Aren’t you ever the philosopher? Do explain to _me_ about _my_ choices Little Miss Dominatrix.” Mary sat up and pulled the hood of her parka up so it protected her forehead better. “I don’t enjoy keeping information about my past from John, but he chose to leave my past in the past. If you want to discuss poor choices, we could discuss our meeting place: You could have picked a warm, cozy coffee house or at least a park with fewer cameras.”

“Bloody cameras! But I do have my reasons: I want one particular someone to witness us together. No fear, he won’t go back and tell.”

“Mycroft,” Mary said, then chirp! Her cell answered as if to confirm he’d spied them already on the CCTV. She pulled the cell from her parka and looked at her screen in relief. “It’s John. And yes, he’s fretting about me.” Mary tapped out a quick reply, then turned her eyes back to Irene. “So, explain to me why we _are_ here.” 

Irene took a deep breath and began. “The day before Moriarty’s face broke onto to every telly, I received a text coming from a number that Moriarty often used to contact me during sensitive situations. It struck me immediately as authentic--the tone, the stilted syntax--so much like one of Moriarty’s maniac orders. It said: ‘ _Be a sweetheart and take a bouquet of forget-me nots to our good-friend Mary. And do make certain that Dear John witnesses our gift. Oh, make sure that the bouquet is drenched in blood. Whose blood it is, I’ll leave to your discretion_.’” 

“Creepy, yes, and it does sound like what he’d write. I still don’t understand why all the secrecy meeting here. John and Sherlock should know about this message. Why didn’t you go directly to Mycroft with this?” 

“I want My’s help, but I don’t want him to know everything that was in the message, and it’s the portion I haven’t told you that forced us to meet today; Moriarty said... _He knows_. I can’t even repeat what he said here for fear of anyone else finding out, but I don't have to, do I? You know. Oh, you know so, so well. But how could he? I don’t know how. How _could_ he? What if that bastard really is alive? Sherlock saw him die, but John saw Sherlock die too. We both know how that went. But he has to be dead. _He has to_. He could have just scheduled this message, but if that’s not the case, someone else is posing as Moriarty. How could that person know? How is this possible? Only you and I knew--unless you confided in someone.”

Mary’s head flew up, and she met Irene’s eyes. “No! No one. Ever. I don’t want anyone to ever know, especially John.”

“We need to find out who sent that message, and what they really want,” Irene said.

That’s the problem when you have so many secrets, Mary thought. Someone always finds them no matter how hard you try to bury them.

 

\------------

 

“Sherlock! How did you get in here? Oh, don’t even tell me--I don’t want to know.”

Scowling with his arms filled with his posh shoes, Sherlock spun around to face Mrs. Hudson.

“My. Coat,” he ordered. “Now.”

“You shouldn’t be dressed, dear,” she said, stepping directly in front of Sherlock and grabbing some of the shoes from out of his arms.

“Give them back,” Sherlock ordered. 

“No, John was very specific in his instructions that you need bed rest,” she said, reaching out for more of the shoes. Sherlock immediately dropped two shoes to the floor and nimbly slipped them on his feet before Mrs. Hudson could snatch those too.

“Why don’t you take yourself upstairs, and I’ll bring you up a nice cup of tea and a big slice of that chocolate cake you adore?”

“I _require_ my coat,”  Sherlock huffed, “immediately.”

Mrs. Hudson crossed the room and threw the shoes she’d taken from him back into the front closet, then shut the door with a bang. Stepping right up to Sherlock, she wagged her finger in his face. “I will not help you hurt yourself, dear. Doctor Watson told me that people who don’t get proper rest after that much head trauma can end up with permanent brain damage. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You must take proper care of yourself.”

“I am fine,” he spat out. He hated it when she played the sympathy card, and it almost worked. Almost. He shook off her emotional plea, then straightened his shoulders. “My coat!” he demanded. When he got no results from Mrs. Hudson, he sighed and started to step around her. “No matter--I will find it.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and wouldn’t be pushed aside, instead she placed herself squarely in front of Sherlock and refused to budge. “Go upstairs. Please, Sherlock.”

Instead of heeding Mrs. Hudson’s directions, Sherlock spun on his heels, stopped to catch his balance, then walked toward door without his coat. 

“Sherlock! Take off those shoes and come back!” she hollered after him, but he simply waved her off. “Oh dear, John will be so disappointed in me.” 

As Sherlock walked out the door, he turned his face to the sky. “Raining, of course it’s raining,” he mumbled to himself.

It wasn’t until he was inside the cab that he noticed that he was wearing one brown shoe and one black. Maybe John was correct--his head had sustained more damage than he’d been prepared to admit.

 

\--------------------

 

“John, the kitchen faucet is dripping again.”

In a rush to get to the clinic, John struggled to get into his coat and hopped from one foot to the other as he put on his shoes.

“No, time,” he said, then smiled as he did his best Dr. McCoy impersonation: “Damn it, Mary. I’m a doctor not a plumber.”   

Mary smirked, but kept to the subject at hand, ignoring John’s attempt to distract her with humor.

“Yes, but you did fix it last time, and the time before that,” she said. She decided she’d pull out the method that worked best: “I guess I could do it--it doesn’t seem _that_ difficult.”

She got the desired reaction: “You’re not crawling around and possibly straining yourself fixing the pipes. I will do it later.”

“Or we can call someone in to do it.” Now, that was what she really wanted to happen--not that it would.

“Oh, hell. No, we do not have to call somebody in to do this! I will do it. Tonight. I just can’t do it right this moment. Look, I’m going to be late; I have to get to the clinic.” 

Mary sighed. “I know you said tonight, but the last time it took days and days before you got to it. Tonight never comes. You know how your schedule goes. It’s flu season, and then there is Sherlock with a case, Sherlock on the mend, Sherlock on a rant, Sherlock on a--”

“I know, Mary. No one knows more than I how demanding, frustrating, and infuriating that man can be. But he thinks he’s invincible, and he’s not. The git has to have someone tell him to eat and sleep and bloody well go to bed.”

 

\--------------------

 

“You sure you should be here? You don’t look yourself,” Molly said.

Sherlock’s eyes rested on the man on the autopsy table, then flicked over to read Molly’s laptop with the page open to her notes.

“I’ve had quite enough of the coddling between John and Mrs. Hudson--don’t you start too--now hand me that scalpel.”   

Molly watched Sherlock as he swayed inelegantly on his feet. “Are you sure you should be handling sharp objects?”

Sherlock grasped the edge the table to steady himself. He'd become more tired coming to Bart's than he'd anticipated. “I’m capable. Or you can,” he conceded. “You need to check the stomach contents.” 

“That was my plan until you stumbled in. I heard you clear down the hallway banging into tables.”

“I’m sure John told you to text him if I showed up at Bart’s and that you have already done so. I expect he should arrive in less than an hour--that leaves us with little time without interruption.”

“Since when is John an interruption?” she asked. 

“Since he decided I am an invalid who must stay home-bound.”

“He might be right, you know.  It explains why you are dripping wet with no coat and mismatched shoes.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Your date last evening did not go well for you as evidenced by last night’s makeup still caked on your face and hair all akimbo: your _usual_ guise when you’ve been, as you call it, dumped.”

“I’ll choose to ignore that this time, Sherlock. I think we have more pressing matters. And besides, sometimes you’re wrong. I haven’t washed my face or fixed my hair because I didn’t go home last night.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, stunned. Molly noted that it took longer for Sherlock to recover and no snarky reply followed. Her concern grew, and she hoped John would get to Bart’s soon.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to Mr. Whithers,” he said, nodding down to the man on the table. 

Molly smiled. She did need help with this. Might as well take advantage of Sherlock with him here even if he was a bit off today. “Without witnesses to the incident, acute anaphylactic asphyxiation is difficult to detect in postmortems,” she said, putting on plastic gloves and starting to make the incision.

“Could you please refrain from stating the obvious? It gets tiring.”

Sherlock watched carefully as she went through abdominal cavity, helped her check the contents of the intestines and stomach and take samples to find out what the victim had last eaten.

“This is the eighth case we’ve had in four days with an unknown substance,” she said. “I can’t help but assume that the source is the same. I need to find the allergen immediately before this happens again. The odds of having this many type-one anaphylaxis hypersensitivity deaths is astronomical.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I know,” said Molly. “But it is astronomical! At first I thought the victims had all eaten the same food that contained something they were all hypersensitive to, but I was wrong. Different meals. So I looked for other common possible antigens, but no bee stings, no history of drug reactions.”

“Were all the victims alone when they expired?”

“No, three had people present when they went into anaphylactic shock. Those present said it happened extremely fast even by typical standards. Two died at the scene and one on route to hospital. The one on route had acute respiratory distress derived by the glottis edema or bronchial obstruction, respiratory distress, followed by cardiovascular collapse. By the time the medics arrived, he couldn't speak. According to witnesses, this happened in less than ten minutes. All victims but one victim had never presented any prior adverse events.”

“The one?”

“Severe nut allergy. But the autopsy revealed no evidence of the subject ingesting any type of ground nut product. We did the usual histological, histochemical, and immuno-histochemical tests,” Molly hesitated when she turned her ear to the door when she heard determined, heavy footsteps in the hall.

“Ah, here’s Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, looking up at the clock, “much sooner than I expected.”

John thundered into the room, practically spitting fire.

“Sherlock! Why do I bother? What are you doing here? I got a call from Mrs. Hudson--and she never calls me-- _and_ a text from Molly AND one from that insufferable brother of yours about you running amok.” 

Sherlock flung John a bored look. “All expected outcomes since you instructed them to contact you if they saw me.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock--and I never contacted your brother. He just always finds out. Probably has cameras hidden all over the apartment. The point is,” he paused then repeated, “the point is that you _need_ rest.”

“Molly needs my assistance. It’s of dire necessity that I aid in this case.”

“It’s always dire,” John said, looking over at Molly.

“He’s right. He’s not exaggerating this time,” she said.

Ten minutes later Sherlock and Molly had convinced John of the case’s importance, but John still insisted that Sherlock needed to go home.

“I presume you’ve talked to Lestrade about this,” John said to Molly.

“Yes, as of yesterday,” she said. “They’ve been looking into each case to find some kind of connect between the victims.”

“Just text Sherlock any information, and I’ll call Lestrade and have him send over any files on the case.” 

“It saves so much time if I just interview those involved myself.” He turned to Molly. “Please send me the results of the lab work from the samples we took earlier. Make sure you use peripheral blood samples, not central.”

“You _must_ really be feeling awful. You just said please,” she said.

Sherlock crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “Is there any other information you deem pertinent I should know?”

“Well, every subject _was_ male.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he looked over at John. It was evident to Sherlock that John was surprised. Good. He would get John invested in this case. Sherlock raised his eyebrow in inquiry. He needed to draw him in just a bit more. 

“Well that’s out of the ordinary since more women have life-threatening allergic reactions than men,” John said.

“Curious,” Sherlock agreed.

“Yes. That’s why I think this may be an antigen that’s been intentionally introduced to each person--” Molly added.

“Yes, that’s why it’s so vital that someone competent interview the victims’ families and those close to them,” Sherlock said, eyes flickering with excitement as he turned toward John.

“No you don’t!” John said. “I’m taking you home. Now! Leave it to Lestrade and his team until you can at least walk without stumbling. I can interview people of interest if you feel it’s absolutely necessary.” John took hold of Sherlock’s arm and began guiding him out of the room. 

“There’s one other thing,” Molly called after them. “Each victim had an unusually high level of estrogen.” 

On the cab ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock sat quietly, most likely, John thought, in his mind palace. He remained that way with hands steepled in contemplation until the cab stopped in front of the 221B when Sherlock turned and asked: “John, is it possible to induce hypersensitivity? To trigger some kind of universal anaphylactic reaction?”

“Possible? I’m not sure, but that’s a terrifying thought. You know what kind of havoc someone could cause if that was possible? If this wasn’t predispositioned but induced...” 

John helped Sherlock out of the cab and to the door. He’d pushed himself beyond his limits today, and his head pounded and hands shook.

“What kind of person would do such a thing?” John asked quietly to himself.

  
“What kind, indeed,” Sherlock whispered in answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and Kudos are welcome and appreciated.
> 
> Also, I am looking for a Beta to help me out. I don't need help with plot or writing in general. I do need someone to clean up grammar/typos I may have missed and to Brit pick.


	3. Coat Optional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Here's the next chapter--yippee!

“Miss Adler, you do know that I have to tell Sherlock,” Mycroft said, leaning back into his chair staring at the laptop in front of him.

“I know no such thing. This is between us. There’s no need to bring Sherlock into this,” she said, taking a seat on his desk.

“This is not a secret I wish to continue keeping from him, but I fear it is out of our hands,” he said, spinning around the laptop to show her the screen.

“That’s John’s blog,” she said, edging closer.

“Look here.” he pointed to the bottom on the screen.

“Oh," she cried. "Oh!”

“Yes, my sentiments exactly.”

 

\----------------------------

 

John sat at the counter of a cozy pub he’d never frequented nestled at the top of Baker Street. This quaint establishment with cheerful patrons and comely waitresses made John regret listening to Sherlock. He and Sherlock had walked past the place many a time, and John had commented on more than one occasion that friends of his raved about the food and atmosphere. Each time Sherlock had sneered, often referring to the tavern as “a dive” with “questionable proprietors” that had a blind eye for “unsanitary conditions and unsavory clientele.” John didn’t know what the kitchen looked like, but from what he could see, the pub looked impeccably clean, and its smart decor was bolstered with respectable looking patrons. As for cleanliness of the kitchen, he’d trust Sherlock on that one for tonight and stick to a mug of ale.

This was his last interview with witnesses for the day, and he had set up a meeting with the girlfriend of of the last victim that morning. He’d phoned Miss Stevens, and she’d suggested at late afternoon meeting at The Good Samaritan.

Sherlock had felt well enough to text him persistently throughout the day, querying about details of the precise locations of each onset, who else was there, and other questions regarding the task he sent John out to do. Even now his pocket buzzed with a message. Why couldn’t Sherlock trust him to do his job?

John rubbed his sore shoulder and ignored the text for now. It had been a tiring, unnoteworthy day. Nothing glaringly out of the ordinary had presented itself other than the fact that there were so many of these occurrences. The witnesses that he’d interviewed had either administered CPR or watched as others futilely performed it. Not a single witness had seen the victims eat anything during the time they’d been with victim. Although two had only been with the victim briefly, most had been with the victim for hours before the onset. Nothing in common as to where they’d been, or what they’d touched. John had nothing. He was staring into his ale when Miss Stevens popped up behind him.

“John Watson?” she asked, brushing her long, blonde locks from her eyes.

“Why, yes. You must be Jillian Stevens,” John said, reaching out to shake her hand.

“That I am. I must say that you’re more handsome in person,” she said, taking a seat on the stool next to him. She gave his hand a squeeze, lingered a bit, then let go.

John laughed and blushed a bit and mumbled “Thank you” into his mug. She was definitely attractive, although a bit young. There was a time not so long ago that John would have flirted back. He sighed. Life changes. He was a married man and soon to be father--none of that nonsense for him no matter how shapely someone's legs looked. He looked at his ring and flicked Miss Stevens a quick smile.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said. “I know it’s not easy watching someone you love suffer.” John gave the bartender a nod. “What would you like?”

“Bloody Mary would be fine, thank you,” she said, mouth tightening into a straight line. “And you’re right, it’s not. It’s so nice for a change to have someone say that. Everyone I know just tiptoes around what happened.”

“Yes, I know exactly how having an elephant in the room feels.” It didn’t seem so long ago that he was in a dark place too.

“You aren’t what I thought you’d be like at all,” she said. “Not stuffy or codgy.”

John blinked. He wondered who said codgy anymore? Not hot twenty-somethings with bright-red manicured nails with matching pouty-red lips and wicked cat eyeliner. She must live with her grandparents or work with elderly in some capacity to have picked up that bit of vernacular.

“I guess I didn’t know what to expect after reading your blogs,” she admitted. “You lead such an exciting life--I always wanted to meet you, but not like this.”

“It’s not all excitement,” John said. “And I wish it was under different circumstances too.”

She took a sip of her Bloody Mary and looked around the room to compose herself. John was almost out of platitudes. Almost.

“I know it’s hard to talk about,” John said, leaning in closer to her for support, “but it’s necessary to our investigation.”

“You think that this could be intentional? I don’t understand how anyone would want to hurt my brother.”

John felt the need not to over-alarm the young woman. “It may not be intentional at all, Miss Stevens. We haven’t found any connection other than they all experienced anaphylactic shock with no known allergen. We’re trying to determine what they were exposed to.”

“So this may be some terrible accident, a coincidence? They just happened upon something in common that they all were exposed to?”

“It’s possible. That’s what Mr. Holmes and I are trying to determine. You said on the phone you and your brother were close and mentioned that you’d been jogging with him before this happened. How long of a run was it?”

“We were out for over a half an hour or so, training for a 5K race, and we met at my apartment like we do almost every morning. It was a ritual for us. We always gossip a bit before a run, have a laugh, but we never eat anything.”

John nodded.

“We’d finished our run and were cooling down near my apartment building when it happened,” she said. “It was so sudden, although as it happened, it felt like everything was in slow motion. I guess that’s common during traumatic accidents. I know that sounds like a contradiction, but it was surreal and horrifying.” She stopped and wiped away the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand. “Away, he was gasping for breath, then fell to the ground. I can’t forget his gasping. I still see it when I close my eyes. And it’s not like I hadn’t seen him have reactions so many times over the years--it just never happened like this.“

“How was it different?”

“His face--I’ll never forget it. He was shocked, surprised. He always knows when it’s happening. Always,” she said, sniffing. “He gets itchy and feels sick to his stomach. Over the years it’s come up on him faster, but he always _knows_. It didn’t happen that way--he didn’t know. His airway swelled up so fast, he couldn’t even speak, but he moved his mouth and mumbled... _Oh, God...I'm dying_. He mouthed ‘ _I love you_.’ It was so sudden. Did it happen this way with the others?”

John nodded. “Yes, unusually fast.” His cell buzzed again. Sherlock.

“When he was a kid, it would take us by surprise. But now, he was so careful. And, like I said, he always has--had--a feeling. Like a signal? I doesn’t--didn’t--happen as often as when he was a kid since he’s so careful not to eat anything where he doesn’t know how the food is prepared. You’d be surprised how often nuts or groundnut ingredients get cross contaminated with food. That’s why he only went to certain places--like this place. That’s why I said to meet here. We used to come here. He was so careful. It rarely happened anymore,” she said, stifling a sob with her hand.

John patted her hand.

“I used his epipen,” she said. “Got it out of his bag. He carried it everywhere--always prepared. I can’t remember having to do that--ever. A neighbor of mine was there and called for the ambulance. The pen didn’t work, so I gave him a second shot. He’s never needed a second shot before--at least as far as I know. That still didn’t work. I started CPR. His heart just--stopped. I still can believe this. And I don’t know why, I don’t know why.”

“You said he hadn’t eaten.”

“No, he hadn’t, not when I was with him. He had a few sips of water,” she said, “from his own water bottle, and the water came from my tap. Nothing else that I saw. We been together for hours. I’m sure he didn’t eat anything.”

“Thank you. I’ll let you know if we find anything out,” John said.

“Yes, that would be good. I’d like that,” she said.

John paid the tab and she let him.

John decided to take a cab to 221B. As he watched the streets of London, he thought about the day and Miss Stevens and The Good Samaritan and why Sherlock had an aversion to the place. Jillian said the food was carefully prepared. More than likely Sherlock was barred from the Tavern, and he didn’t want to tell John. Halfway to the flat he decided to check the text messages from Sherlock and took out his phone.

“Oh, fuck!” he swore as he read his last texts.

 _This time not just a card._ SH

 _Unexpected dominatrix in my bed._ SH

 

\--------------

Sherlock saw the coat when he came in the door, picked it up and smiled. He knew that perfume.

Over the years, Sherlock encountered few people who compelled him. Some for the good, others for the bad. Others he hadn’t determined. Irene comprised an undefined soft spot in his heart although not the fixed golden position John held.

Perplexing to think that John believed that women were a mystery to Sherlock. Most weren’t. Sex seemed included in John’s assessment. Sex most definitely was not a mystery. The woman, however, was. Not her sex but her mind.

The mystery to Sherlock was that why anyone would think that sex was beyond Sherlock’s realm of comprehension. Sex simply held no significance; therefore, what was unimportant was deleted, hence no allure. A fascinating mind, however, held allure, and Miss Adler’s mind was fascinating.

Why was she here? What reason? Ah, the discovery excited his intellect.

Sherlock noticed the door to his room ajar and stepped through, coat still in hand.

Sherlock slipped on his unaffected face as soon as he spied Irene naked, basking on his bed. She peered up at him through lush, dark lashes. He plucked his cell out of his trousers and texted John. Not that he needed John’s assistance, but…

In an attempt to cover her bare legs and other parts, Sherlock flung her designer black-leather coat over her. It met with partial success. “I believe it belongs to you,” he said. “Put it on.”

“I don’t think so. Not yet anyway,” she said, toes curling beneath the coat. “I’d rather put something else on--something tall with long, ivory limbs.”

“I’m afraid that would NOT be a proper fit.”

“Oh, Sherlock. One size fits all.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I prefer tailored.”

“Well, well, well! So you do. And I know the exact size. Although what you prefer, you can not have and belongs to someone else,” she teased. “She might let you borrow him if you asked nicely though.”

“I prefer _not_ to have this conversation.”

“What? Sherlock Holmes silenced? Impossible! I’ll tell you what I believe you prefer--”

“Oh, do tell. Or don’t...”

“I believe if it was John naked in your bed right now, you wouldn’t be able to take your clothes off fast enough.” She rolled over on her tummy, twisted the coat off, thrust her butt in the air and looked over her shoulder. “But we can’t always get what we want.”

“Yes, yes. Even I know something of The Stones: ‘you can get what you need’,” he hissed. “There are some _things_ I do _not_ need.”

Irene hesitated and looked at Sherlock carefully and frowned. “Have you been ill? Your complexion is a bit more peaked than usual, and you’re swaying on your feet. I know I do have that effect on some, but I’m not so sure that’s the case.”

“Your concern is misplaced. I am fine. I already have Mrs. Hudson coddling me. And John…”

There. Thump, thump, thump. At last! John rushing up the stairs. The clamoring got louder as John bounded to Sherlock’s room.

“Oh, speak of the devil!” Irene laughed.

John stopped short and looked from Sherlock to the woman on the bed. “How did she get in?” he asked Sherlock, then leaned heavily against the bedroom door.

“Mrs. Hudson called up and said she had a package for me. I went to retrieve it,” Sherlock explained. “I went down, and the woman crept into the flat, left her coat on the couch as a calling card, then came into my room and climbed into bed.”

Irene gave John a wave with a flutter of her fingers and wiggled her fanny some more.

“Without. Any. Clothes,” John said.

“Really, John?” Sherlock said, brows raised.

“I mean she didn’t have any clothes on underneath her coat. Wasn’t it a bit...chilly?” he asked her.

“Not at all,” she smiled. “I had my thoughts of Sherlock to keep me warm.” She raised her eyebrow as she looked John up and down. "Jealous, Johnny?"

John crossed his arms and eyes fixed straight ahead at the headboard. “Why is she here?”

“Finally! a question that deserves an answer!” Sherlock said.

“Oh Johnny, _please_ address me directly. I’d like that. If you do, I’ll reward you. I’ll let you come play with us.” She patted the bed for emphasis.

Sherlock stiffened. “That’s not humorous,” he said.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying. You both look so...edible.”

“Do put the coat on,” John said. “And explain.”

“I will, but don’t be so quick to throw all your options out the window.”

John looked away and cleared his throat as Irene sat up and grudgingly put on the coat and slowly buttoned it up. Sherlock unabashedly watched. She gave Sherlock a wink as she fastened the last button.

“I’ve come into some information you need to be aware of--both of you,” she said, crossing her legs. “Honestly, have either of you read John’s blog today?”

Sherlock, checked his phone, brows furrowed.

“What? Why?” John asked.

“In the comments,” she added.

“What? What is it, Sherlock?”

“As you like to say,” Sherlock said, “a bit not good.”

Sometimes he wished John had read what was on that flash drive. Not that John would be here instead of that dreary apartment that he and Mary shared, but that John would know. Knowledge was the impetus of all that defined Sherlock; hence, why John refused knowledge no matter how it was presented was a mystery to Sherlock, making this an added affirmation of why John was the most compelling mystery Sherlock had even encountered.

He cared for John, and John didn’t want to know.

“Sherlock, you don’t look so good,” she said.

It was then that Sherlock swayed and collapsed to the floor.

John knelt down next to Sherlock and checked his pulse, then looked up at Irene. “What exactly is in my blog?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome!


	4. Demon Vine Conspiracy Theory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene gets a bit frisky in this chapter, but Sherlock keeps her under control.

Sherlock awoke to raised voices coming from his living room. He strained to sit up, flopping back down on the bed in agony. His head pounded more angrily than the day after he had that drinking contest with Oli and Jack from his homeless network. With a shaking hand, he fumbled to reach the bed table, but John hadn’t left the usual glass of water and pain reliever. To compound matters, John’s strained voice echoed throughout the flat at a volume only Sherlock had ever provoked. Irene's screeching voice didn’t help at all--in fact, Sherlock hadn’t believed Irene could or would screech until this moment. It was the rapid repetition, however, that drove him near mad. The pattern did not abate: first John’s bellow, then Irene’s squawk, back and forth like crazed cacophonous volleys in a tennis match. He caught enough to know that John had read the message on the blog, and that Irene knew much, much more than she should about it all. Possibly as much as Sherlock knew. They continued arguing about Mary until John took the advantage, slammed home the break shot and thunderously stomped out of the match to go confront Mary.

Moments later, Sherlock heard Irene step into his bedroom, and the sheets rustled as she slipped beneath with him. He moaned, and not in an encouraging way.

“You needn’t pretend you’re asleep. I know that you’ve been listening,” she whispered, her breath a feather upon his cheek. Sherlock thought if he had to turn his head and open his eyes to look at her, he might vomit. Instead, she took his silence and pressed eyes as a sign of acquiescence and edged her left hand up his thigh. Sherlock’s breath caught. Damn. He feared she mistook his response as some sort of sexual anticipation. He was correct. She quickly took his gasp as permission--her clever fingers reaching inside his dressing gown and winding around his not-so-flaccid cock. She almost purred as she reverently pumped up and down its length.

“Finally, I have you,” she murmured. Sherlock swallowed. His body was _such_ a traitor. He thought of John, he deserved better--from Mary, from him. This felt like another betrayal. He was a terrible friend. Then there was Mary. He should have told him instead of letting him find out this way through some vapid blog comment. He could have explained. His failure to tell John what he knew had hurt John once again.

Sherlock didn’t notice the tears in his eyes until Irene stopped and sat up. He couldn’t bare to look at her.

“This is either a feigned emotional outburst that you’re acting at right now in some effort to  distract my advances,” she said, “OR this really is an emotional outburst and the head trauma has severely affected you.”

Sherlock didn’t care which she believed. Either way, she had backed off.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Talking is painful.”

“My, that's not a metaphorically answer--you really aren’t acting.” She shifted around on the bed--Sherlock deduced that she was now deducing him. Best to save her some time. She wasn’t as quick as him after all.

“I should have told him about her family,” he admitted.

“He said he didn’t want to know what was on that flash drive. You simply respected his wishes.”

“I could have explained why to him. Softened it for him. He doesn’t understand why she did it,” he muttered painfully. “From what I heard--which was impossible not to hear with all that caterwauling--your defense for her lacked cohesion and any persuasive components. Average is not what I expect from you.”

She huffed and twitched her foot. “One doesn’t simply take a hit out on one’s entire family without taking any blame,” she said.

“You _weren’t_ trying…” Sherlock said, rubbing his temple. “She does take blame, but she had no choice.”

She took a deep sigh in protest but Sherlock continued. “They were a selfish, murdering lot who deserved their fate. If she hadn’t done it, others would have paid a dear price. She did a service. Familial propinquity has no meaning in such a circumstance.”

“This coming from the man who detests his brother with his very being, yet would sever his arm to save him.”

Sherlock uncharacteristically let her last words stand--he didn’t have the energy to disagree.

“You poor dear. You _must_ be feeling horrid. I can’t recall a time you’ve ever let an opportunity to insult Mycroft slip by,” Irene continued. “As for dear Mary and John--all will work out. She must know that John will forgive her in the end.”

"I don't agree," Sherlock said, shaking his head. He doubted Irene since he surmised that Mary had never forgiven herself. 

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you again you have no heart. Here rests Sherlock Holmes, ragged, alone yet he defends the one who stands between himself and happiness.” She paused dramatically and reached for his hand, taking it in hers. “Yet it’s John you’re really protecting here. His happiness. You are a loyal friend, Sherlock.”

She sighed and let go of his hand.

“John’s capacity for forgiveness is almost limitless,” Sherlock said with a hint of sadness.

Sherlock took a chance and opened his eyes to blinding pain. Irene was texting. He didn’t need to watch her to know that she was texting Mary.

Before she left, Sherlock thanked her for the package that she'd left for him downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.

 

\------------------

 

Four hours later Sherlock heard familiar footsteps on the stairs. A loud thump at the top of the step told Sherlock that he had a bag with him. A flutter of felicity swept through him--he knew it was a bit not good to feel such a way, but he couldn’t help it. His John was back at Baker Street. It felt right.

Maybe John could get him some aspirin for this blessed headache. Or better, something stronger.

He listened as John walked up to his old room and back down again with the suitcase.

“I know I don’t live here any longer,” he said, dropping the suitcase and leaning against the door frame, “but what are all those boxes stacked all over my bed and room?”

“They were cleaning out supplies at Bart’s and were going to throw out some perfectly good equipment and specimens. Molly let me pack them up and bring them home.”

“Specimens?” John shook his head. “No, don’t tell me what. I don’t want to know. Better to not know. Yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock set his laptop aside and sat up in bed. “John?”

“Yes?”

“You could sleep here. I would be perfectly contented to rest on the sofa.”

“That’s kind of you, Sherlock, but not something you’d usually offer without some ulterior motive. You should be getting better by now. I better give you a thorough examination just to make sure the concussion's on the mend.”

His cheeks flushed with the thought. John was not that much of an imbecile--he had to have noticed. Sherlock hoped he’d believe he was still feeling off, but to be certain, Sherlock thought it best to distract him. That and John needed to know.

“She had a good reason,” Sherlock blurred out.

“I really, really do not want to hear it.” John crossed his arms and frowned.

“Please humor me,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, well, go ahead,” he said, waving his hand at him. “Might as well. Not like anything I’d say would stop you anyway.”

“She did it for her baby sister, Emma. You see, Mary’s family killed her thirteen-year-old sister-- burned her alive with petrol because she threatened to tell police that they were killing retirees for profit. They burned her little body, then buried her most likely near Buckinghamshire, and told police she’d run off.”

John sat down at the end of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

“Father and son found victims with property, you see. Mary's mom was a nurse and administered potassium chloride by I.V. in high doses to the unsuspecting elderly. Sometimes her husband would help her out by terrifying victims to death and claim dementia. They were careful to vary their methods so not to bring suspicion down upon themselves. An insulin overdose on a diabetic patient was simple. A bit of carbon monoxide poisoning here and there. Sleeping pills with a bit of a house fire from smoking in bed. So many methods. Quite ingenious and they covered evidence effectively. No one noticed the pattern since they moved from place to place and changed identities efficiently.”

“You knew this," John said. "It was on that flash drive.”

“I didn’t tell you. You didn’t want to know,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I remember. Yet, now I...” John couldn’t bring himself to speak. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was regret that kept John from continuing.

A heavy silence hugged the room, making each breath John took close, almost touchable. Sherlock counted each exhale. At ten he chanced to speak: “There’s more.”

“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” John sighed. “I still need to check you over.”

John would have to touch him. Sherlock didn’t know if he could bear it tonight.

“I’ve done a bit of investigating,” Sherlock said anxiously, pointing at his laptop.

“Listen, Sherlock, I know what you’re avoiding.”

He held his breath and continued on, hoping to distract him. “Even the most clever think themselves untraceable through a proxy, but often there are ways in which to find out,” Sherlock pushed forward.

“Alright. I give up for the moment. Are the ways to find out these ‘untraceable’ blog comments through deduction?”

“No, through javascript.”

John smiled. “Do tell…”

Sherlock returned his sly grin. My, he had missed this--this comradely banter. If he could just have this, he wouldn’t ask for another thing--not even a pristine cadaver part.

“It seems Irene Adler sent the blog post,” Sherlock looked up at John. “But why, you ask? I must say I suspected it was her before she texted Mary you were on your way home, but I wasn’t sure. You see she wanted you out of your apartment and here at Baker Street.”

“Why on earth would she want me to leave Mary?”

“Mary was in on it--in part. She and Mary planned it,” Sherlock said simply. “Not the letting you know about Mary’s past--no, but the getting you out of the apartment--yes. Throwing Mary to the ‘curb’ as you call it was not the original plan, but Miss Adler must have been pressed for time and felt there was no other option but to move immediately. She can be rather compulsive.”

“You’re telling me there is some threat that we don’t know about and that Irene put the message on the blog just to get me out of the way,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes followed John as he paced back and forth in front of his bed. He’d worry a path there before long if he kept at it. “I would say more like out of harm’s way in Mary’s case.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that she left that other daft message on the blog too.”

“Other daft message?”

“The comment about the how the government has conspired and planted ‘demon vines’ all over London that come to life at the stroke of twelve to murder unsuspecting traffic wardens and lawyers who happen by.”

“No, of course not,” he said, giving John a thoughtful nod as if killer plants were plausible. He deemed a show of patience was needed with John for the time being. It wouldn’t do to treat him with the usual haughty disdain he usually applied to such stupidity. “Although the plants might be performing a great service to London. A paranoid schizophrenic left that message--most likely during a full blown psychotic episode.”

“Well, crazies abound lately,” John said, shifting his weight at the end of the bed. “And Mary is crazy not to tell me what the problem is. I'm tired of secret plans to keep me safe. I’m not some child she needs to protect.”

“Past practice was to keep you safe on Mary’s part,” Sherlock continued patiently. “And mine. I’m certain she’s furious at Miss Adler, but the ends justified the means as they say.” Sherlock closed his eyes. John wasn’t happy at him right now either, but he could take mad--he rather liked John when he was angry. “The mystery is: Why did they need you out of your apartment? And what could be so incredibly awful that exposing this part of Mary’s past to you was deemed acceptable collateral."

It also occurred to Sherlock that Mary could want John out of the house to keep something from him, not to protect him. It was a possibility Sherlock thought he needed to explore.

John shook his head still pacing. “Worse?! Something worse than this?! And you say this all is just a red herring? What could be worse than killing your own family?!” John stopped at the foot of his bed, his mouth open unable to speak for a moment. “Oh, God. It is Moriarty! Tell me now if it’s Moriarty!”

“Moriarty is dead,” Sherlock replied. “I watched him die.”

“I watched you die, too.”

Now he’d done it. Sherlock had lead him to edge of the building again to watch him fall. Not good, not good, not a bit good. John was no longer angry, he was distressed. Must make amends, make John useful. He called to the healer in John. Sherlock moaned dramatically and rubbed his temple.

“Lie back,” John said with a sigh, “let me get my med kit.”

Sherlock loved London. The smells. The congestion. The motion. Even the rain. But he loved John more. He’d sacrifice the examination and think of Mycroft naked. Or Mrs. Hudson. No, Mycroft. “Or I'd rather face a killer plant,” Sherlock mumbled.

“What are you on about?” John said as he returned to the room. Sherlock peeked at him through one open eye.

Then John’s gentle hands caressed him, checking his head, his pulse. His attention fixed fully on Sherlock, listening to the beat of heart, watching the path of his eyes as they followed his finger. It was easy to forget, to wish, to hope when those careful hands offered comfort and watchful eyes devotion. Such dreams Sherlock had. So many times he almost told John but held himself back. Sherlock bit back a moan and willed himself still. Despite how it might seem that John’s ministrations were intimate, he was a doctor doing what a doctor does: tending his patient. And the fact remained: John loved Mary. John would not desert her. And Sherlock did not want John to desert her. John had always wanted a family and children. That for today Mary’s past assailed the very foundation of John’s concept of domesticity, did not matter.  He would find concord later as he came to the same conclusion Sherlock had: When at war with evil, one must sometimes embrace evil to best it.


	5. The Irretrievable Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts Mary, who reveals more to Sherlock than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience following the story and the kind words and kudos. Sorry for the long delay between this chapter and the last. I should be posting the next few chapters a bit more regularly. Hoping to get ahead with writing during time off for the holidays.

Sherlock woke with the press of something light on his forehead. That it was a gentle kiss from John, was his wish. To his regret, it was merely John’s fingers brushing back a curl. On reflection _and_ to his surprise, this was almost as endearing. Not that Sherlock liked endearing. Not at all. But he tolerated endearing from John.

This was reality, and it was almost better than any dream. John back. And he was checking Sherlock’s vitals. Sherlock didn’t know why he was so hesitant to want John to touch him like this last night. The comfort he felt as John’s sure hands moved over him relaxed his soul. He was just over-stimulated yesterday--what with Irene and her unwelcome advances.

His head felt better; the tablets John gave him before bed helped him sleep. He felt rested. Almost too rested, his limbs felt a bit lazy. He slowly opened his eyes to John’s smile, and although this should not make a bit of difference, that smile made his head feel clearer than it had in days. The fog had lifted with an upward turn of the John’s lips, and he no longer had to pretend John was just in the other room. He _was_ in the other room.

Once upon a time it was easy to lie to himself. Now once upon a time and fairy tales and heart-held secrets vanished into the background with John Watson back home even if he had slept the night on the sofa. All it took was a wink and a smile. Sherlock denied how he felt for so long--all the pangs and longings he had hidden away from the world and himself in his hard drive. The shock of allowing himself to recognize those bits emotion for the first time since his childhood humbled him, and he hadn’t denied those feelings since that day he finally confronted them during that dark time in Serbia.

“You don’t look as green this morning,” John said, resting his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

It was heartening to Sherlock that John voiced his concerns. John fine-tuned the pitch of Sherlock’s disposition like pegs on a priceless violin. His attitude affected Sherlock’s without question--although Sherlock’s exterior often presented indifference toward John’s efforts, Sherlock internalized that compassion and that compassion had changed Sherlock forever. Sometimes Sherlock wondered if it was for the best--other times such as today, Sherlock embraced that best.

“Yes, I actually feel a little bored,” Sherlock said with a bit of a lilt in his voice.

“God, help us, but I am glad you’re feeling bored. I was getting concerned.” As he sat on the edge of the bed, John blinked and continued to smile fondly at him. “You need to eat something. I went to Tesco and picked up a few things. I’ll make some chicken soup and bring it in for you.”

John took hold of Sherlock’s leg and gave it a quick squeeze.

“No need to coddle me. I can come sit at the table with you,” Sherlock relied. “And I do need a shower. It would do me good to get the legs back online along with the brain.”

“Let me see how steady you are on your feet before you step in the shower. If not, I can help you.”

Sherlock’s heart raced with the thought as he planted his feet firmly on the floor and stuck a stiff stance. No wobbling and he smirked down at John, who looked amused. No need to have John help in the shower--that would be most distressing since Sherlock knew the effect John would have on him in that position. Just to be certain John wouldn’t follow him into the bath, Sherlock made a show and stalked across the room sure-footed, one long stride after another.

John rubbed his face and nodded. “Promise you’ll call if you need help? I don’t want you risking another fall. Maybe it would be wise to take a bath instead, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, and John reluctantly stood up and went to the kitchen to make soup, leaving Sherlock with the odd feeling that John wanted to help him for reasons that weren’t so magnanimous.

Sherlock _intended_ to take a bath. While he felt a better, he was still had to work at staying steady on his feet. He closed his eyes in front of the mirror and thought: _all I need to do is call for help: John’s hands on me keeping me steady, scrubbing in my scalp, washing my back, moving the cloth lower, lower._ ..   _All I need to do is call. Maybe John wants me to call him._

Simple. Or maybe not. He must have read John wrong. John didn’t feel that way about him. When it came to reading emotions of the heart, for Sherlock simple was not so simple. He sighed, opened his eyes and stopped pretending, then turned on the tap and let it run. John might touch him, but certainly not in the way he’d imagined: His touches would be that of a doctor attending to his patient. Instead of stepping in the bath, he dressed. Earlier he’d taken care to pick out the shirt John said matched his eyes. If he couldn’t have John’s hands or heart, he could have his eyes win approval. He wet his hair as not to let John know he’d forgone the bath and fussed with it trying to make a quick remedy for his serious case bedhead, but even wet with water, it met with little success. No sense wasting time, he had a mystery to solve and John to cheer up. And more smiles of approval. Nothing brought John back to life more than a good case to solve.

As he walked into the kitchen, he stopped. Something was amiss.

“My lactic acid experiment? Where is it?” he asked.

“I disposed of it.”

Sherlock shrugged, resigned. “But needs must,” he said, sitting down at the table. He was irritated that John threw it out, but having him here countermanded any irritation Sherlock might have.

“You still aren’t up to your old self,” John said. “The Sherlock I know would be ranting right now--”

“I have other priorities,” he said, testing the soup. “Aren’t you always schooling me to be more--what do you say? more thoughtful?”

“Yes, I am. But you’re at it again, distracting me from the real issue or what you referred to as those ‘other priorities’--”

Sherlock’s cell buzzed with a text.

“That would be ‘the priorities’ or whatever euphemism you currently using. Lestrade, I’m sure,” John said. “You are not in any condition to go traipsing all over London after criminals.”

Sherlock looked at his phone and felt a shudder of excitement rush through his veins at the possibility of going out on a case. He really did need to get out.

“A victim,” Sherlock said, as he texted a message back, “not criminals. Another sudden death--in Hyde Park. Another jogger. We must go. Come on, John.”

His phone buzzed again. Sherlock looked at it and frowned.

John shook his head. “You didn’t bathe or couldn’t. If you couldn’t manage that, there’s no way you should be roaming London.”

Sherlock raised his brow. Of course he’d notice he hadn’t bathed. “I plan to bring my doctor with me,” he suggested.

“The doctor will go alone today. You will stay here. No arguments.”

“John…” Sherlock stood up, but his legs wobbled, and he sat back down.

“Look at you. Sherlock, no. Text Lestrade and tell him I’m on my way. I’ll text you and keep in informed on what’s happening.”

Sherlock almost argued with John. But stopped.

John watched as Sherlock sent his text. “Good,” John said, tilting his head and scratching behind his ear. “I’ll be off then. Where’s my phone?”

“On the counter.” Sherlock said.

“I’m off,” John said. “I’ll text you. And _stop_ pouting.”

Sherlock looked down at his last message again. From Mary. She was on her way to talk to Sherlock. Alone. He realized long ago that John was best fooled when he didn’t want to know the real truth. John wants to believe in Sherlock. As he texted Mary back to let her know John had left, he knew John quite probably didn’t notice how fast Sherlock had changed his mind about going out on the case, because John didn’t want to know why.

And Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted to know either.

“Mary, Mary, what have you done?”

 

\---------------------

 

She sat across from Sherlock, feet propped up on the coffee table while Sherlock waited silently for her to begin. Minutes ticked off on the mantle clock, and Sherlock’s eyes never left hers. She sat remarkably still for looking so ungodly uncomfortable.

“My life’s a terrible mess,” she said finally and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Sherlock simply nodded. Patience. He did have patience. He just needed a reason to exercise it. Again he waited. She rubbed her stomach and sighed.

“You know most of it. Why John is here--I’m sure you’ve deduced that in part.”

“Yes. I know the abbreviated version.” He waved his hand in front of him. “You are afraid for John’s life as a result from some unsavory consequence from your dark past that’s reared its ugly head, blah, blah, blah. I would, however, like to hear the complete story--with names, places, other relevant details. I’d prefer this tale...possibly myth? Yes, well, however fanciful it might be...I’d prefer to hear it from you. What ever story you conjure may have enough semblance of truth to extract some form of pertinent information. I surmise the why of John’s return to Baker Street has less to do with your family’s past and more to do with Moriarty’s--hence why you are picking at your cuticles again and have therefore pushed John back to me.”

His cell went off. John was texting him from Hyde Park. He slipped his cell out of his pocket and read:

 

 

> _Victim collapsed on path near the Albert Memorial. Happened fast. Passersby tried to resuscitate. No response same as before. New development, rash on hands._

“Back to you--that’s an interesting way to phrase it,” she said, watching him carefully. “But yes, that’s exactly what I’ve done, and you have the gist as to why.”

“But not the story.”

“Not the story. Unless you want to know more about my cuticles.”

“No. The story,” Sherlock said. “Waiting.”

“I can’t tell you everything,” she said, “but I will tell you as much as I’m able.”

Sherlock looked down at his phone again and raised an eyebrow.

 

 

> _Lestrade told me Jillian Stevens person of interest. Stands to inherit her brother’s estate. Also works at Techwood One._

Curious. His cell buzzed again.

 

 

> _Not answering???_

“I suppose if that’s all I can have, that’s what I shall have to take,” Sherlock said, planting his hands on his knees. He watched her eyebrows raise in understanding at his double meaning. “Let’s start with how Miss Adler is involved in all this.”

“Now that is the sticky wicket,” she said. “As you already know, this is not just my secret to share.”

“Ah, it’s a shared secret.”

“And it does involve Moriarty. Did you know he had a brother?”

“The emphasis is on had, I see.”

His phone again. John was persistent:

 

 

> _Where r u? I knew you let me go off by myself too easily. Wanker._

“Yes, he had a brother," she said, "as insane and as ingenious as him--not only in areas of maths and computer science, but in the chemistry and biology. You would have got on famously if not for his aversion to people. All people. Detested people. Even his brother. Especially his brother, I might add, which explains his leanings toward eradicating what Richard called the ‘the most oppressive parasite’ from Earth--brother James included. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not altruistic--I’m more into self preservation, but he had to be stopped. Jim seemed to feel his brother’s work could be harnessed for his twisted purposes, but if something went wrong...”

“Miss Adler helped you in this matter.”

Mary sighed and wiggled around on the couch to get comfortable. To Sherlock she seemed agitated, distressed and that was so unlike the level-headed Mary he knew.

His cell vibrated again--most distracting.

“Yes. I couldn’t do it alone and make it look accidental--although Jim never believed it was an accident, he never suspected us since he never knew either of us had any knowledge of his brother or his research.”

“The only way you Mary would come to know about this research--which by the way, I’ve already surmised--was through another source, a very enigmatic source. You were far, far from altruistic,” Sherlock said, waggling his finger back and forth, “you and Miss Adler were _contracted_ to do this. _By. My. Brother._ ”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Although you’ll need to talk to him on the details. He knew you’d come to that conclusion.”

“Moreover, he wanted me to know all this.”

“Yes. He knows we burned the lab with Richard Rivers in it and framed an employee who hated Rivers. Jim completely destroyed the bloke and his family--not that Jim cared a rats arse about his brother. I don’t like to think of what he did to that man's family we framed.” She scooted around again on the couch. “I know you don’t follow the news much--”

Sherlock waved her off. Of course he remembered since John had made him watch as the story unfolded: Richard Rivers, founder and CEO of Techwood One, found dead in the second-floor laboratory--three floors burned. John doggedly followed the news reports, and subsequently, the conspiracy theories that tied the family that perished to some government plot. Hence John’s predilection for referring to the place as “spooky do.” Sherlock's head ached thinking about the foiled break in.

His phone again. He looked at the past few messages: 

 

 

> _Answer me now!!! Sherlock!  
>  _
> 
> _I swear to god if you’re off somewhere I’ll make you not okay._
> 
> _Unless you’re not okay. then forget this message._

“This research,” Sherlock continued, “it had to do with sensitizing humans to a common component in our environment with no known allergic properties, yes?”

Mary nodded. “Yes and worse--along with that his research indicated he wanted to make common drugs used for allergies noneffective, creating havoc. But you’ve deduced that also.”

“Quite, but I do not know what the allergen is, how it’s transmitted and more importantly, who is behind it now.” Sherlock looked to her, but she remained silent and shook her head.

“I don’t have those answers for you, and frankly, I didn’t want to know. I’m not sure how many of the files Irene read--and I know she has no clue as to who is behind it.”

He understood. Mycroft must know what the allergen is--or at least he’d know everything in the files. Trust big brother not to share what he knows. Ever. Sherlock’s mind processed the possible hypotheses: Is this allergen something that a person wears and rubs against the victim? Is it spread through tap water? Is it as simple as the grass beneath our feet? Who was behind this? Moriarty? Impossible!

His phone vibrated again.

 

 

> _You wanker. R U ok? Text me back, now!_
> 
> _I’m heading back to Baker Street and you’d better be there_

“Why aren’t you answering John?” she asked, finally.

“And tell him what? You’re here? You are involved knee-deep in our case? I don’t think you want him to know that, do you, Mary?” Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “And add one more secret to his on-going list? This time an Innocent family perishing as a consequence of your actions. Now tell me, exactly how is John in danger, and the real reason for sending him here.”

Mary didn’t flinch. She sat like stone as she stared somewhere behind Sherlock, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I suspect that someone close to Moriarty got a hold of his brother’s work--a man equally as dangerous as Moriarty,” she said. “His name is Culverton Smith. He sent me a disturbing message through Irene--it must be him. That’s why had to get John away from me. It’s bad enough the baby is in danger because of my actions. It’s true that I want to keep much of my past as far from him as possible, to keep him safe and with me--that’s reason enough I suppose, but I have another reason. One that John and I have talked about at length.”

Then her eyes moved, and she looked at directly at Sherlock. He raised his brow in response.

“Right after you came back, I told John I’d share him with you,” she said, setting her hands out and open on what was left of her lap. “I knew how John felt about you from the moment I met him. He mourned you. Not like a man mourns a best friend and compatriot. He mourned you like a lover. When I met you, I knew those feelings were returned. I thought for a time that you'd both had a more intimate relationship. Although John clearly denied it for a time, I knew he loved you. He always insisted that you never felt that way about him, about anyone. How you are both blind to how the other feels is beyond me,” she said, moving her right hand to rub her stomach. “Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m referring to. Irene gave me plenty of advice--not that I needed it from her and not all of it was welcome--but you see, I do want John to be happy. You make him happy, and I make him happy. No reason we both can’t make him happy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Honestly Sherlock, for someone so brilliant, you can be so dense,” she said, struggling to stand and put on her coat. “John should be here soon, and I’d like to be gone when he gets here. It’s fine that he knows that I’ve talked to you. He should know everything. _Everything_ , Sherlock. And I think you are the one who should tell him. When you do, tell him everything that I said, and remember this: John loves you. He has always loved you, and I know you love him. I can share. I’ve always been willing to.”

  
As he listened to the sound of Mary’s footsteps recede down the stairs, Sherlock sat in the chair dumbfounded. That had not gone at all as he’d expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. As usual, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.


	6. A Hand of Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get closer: to the solution and to each other. 
> 
> Sherlock still sat stunned in his chair when John came bounding up the stairs. The door slammed, he heard the hollow thumps as John pounded up the steps and bellowed his name along with assorted blasphemies. The tirade continued as John charged into the living room.

Sherlock still sat stunned in his chair when John came bounding up the stairs. The door slammed, he heard the hollow thumps as John pounded up the steps and bellowed his name along with assorted blasphemies. The tirade continued as John charged into the living room.

As the last echoes of chaos flooded over the flat, he flinched as John flung his coat on the sofa and rounded up to Sherlock's chair. John took a deep breath and looked down at him, leaving Sherlock unsure of what to do. Why was he unsure? He was never unsure. As John’s critical eye diagnosed him, the sudden silence unsettled Sherlock. His best friend and some-time doctor’s anger had morphed to concern as John inspected the detective’s face. John reached down toward his phone that rested on the arm of the chair and carefully picked it up. John slowly scrolled through the messages with one eye on Sherlock.

“You’ve been here the whole time," John said, still scrolling back and assessing the texts. "Sherlock? What’s wrong you wanker? Why didn’t you answer my--”

Sherlock watched: The expression on John’s face revealed all--he’d read the message from Mary.

John read aloud: “ _We need to talk. Without John.”_ His puzzled tone transformed to alarm. “What is this? Is this why you didn’t answer my texts?”

“Of course it is, John--don’t be daft.”

“Well?”

Sherlock motioned to the sofa.

“I need to take a seat for this? Why do I need to take a seat for this, Sherlock?”

John's agitation was evident. He landed hard on the sofa with his hands white-knuckled clutching his knees. His eyes maintained steady, searching Sherlock's. To John’s credit, he sat and listened without interruption as Sherlock outlined his and Mary's meeting. All the while, John tapped his feet nervously and choked back incredulous bits of laughter. He only stopped Sherlock make a cuppa and then to poke the logs in fireplace. Sparks flew up, but strangely John’s temper didn’t. Throughout, John listened as Sherlock told him all that Mary divulged except for the very last revelation. On that, Sherlock hesitated, at a loss how address the subject--although nothing had been at the forefront of his mind more than Mary’s last words.

When done, Sherlock sat quietly, waiting for John’s reaction. He’d anticipated an outburst, but John sat listless. In form of self-preservation, Sherlock slipped into his mind palace. There he revealed all to John. There his heart’s desire unfolded--and there he remained until the his mind abruptly led him from John’s arms and his heart’s desire back into "the case." Before him streamed John’s text messages from the crime scene. He opened his eyes to John waiting for Sherlock.

John cleared his throat and said, “I suppose I should be surprised at all this, but it’s become just so damned routine I’ve become numb to it all.”

It seemed to Sherlock he was not the only one who was numb. That he still hadn’t told John what was upmost on his mind confounded Sherlock, but what confounded him more was that even in the light of his mind palace, it held as much precedence than the case. He knew he should act--tell John the last words Mary said. But he could not.

“What do you want to do next?” John asked.

At first he was unclear as to what John was referring. Sherlock’s first assumption that John was alluding to Mary’s offer to go halves with Sherlock. But no. John had wondered about the possible consequences of Mary’s secret past, and what plan Sherlock had. He had no plan. Before he could have one, Sherlock needed to back to the case, and forego the emotional ties to his heart. He would come back for that at another time.

“You texted me regarding Jillian Stevens,” Sherlock said, getting back to the case. “Money is often a strong motive, but tied to Techwood One suggests something more sinister. This needs further investigation.”

“Well, yes, I’ve actually set up to meet her later this afternoon at the Good Samaritan.”

Sherlock didn’t like the sound of John meeting with this woman without him. To ascertain her degree of complicity or knowledge, he needed to see her, to question her himself.

“Couldn’t we meet somewhere else less dingy and tedious?” Sherlock said with as much disdain as he could muster.

“ _We_?” John laughed. “So you think you’re going with me after all this?”

“Yes, I’m feeling much better. Dinner out is a refreshing idea--what is the harm in a nice, quiet meal? And you are always after me to eat, so--I will eat. You will eat. You can watch me eat, then _I_ will interrogate _the suspect_.”

“ _Jillian_. Her name is Jillian, and I really don’t think she murdered her brother.”

“Nor do I, but that’s for me to determine, isn’t it? A pretty face and you always turn to mush. She can eat too if she likes. Just not at _that_ place,” Sherlock said. “And since _when_ have you been on a first name basis with her? I don’t see a need to be so _familiar_.”

“It’s _not_ a romantic dinner, Sherlock, if that’s what you’re suggesting. You sure don’t have to be there to protect my virtue. Although I’m a bit _confused_ about Mary and my marriage at the moment, I still remember that I _am_ married, and I _am_ going to be a father. That I’m here with you and not with her, is Mary’s choice, not mine.”

Sherlock heart pounded at those words. It hurt to think that John rather not be at Baker Street. “She’s trying to protect you,” Sherlock reminded him, keeping the bitterness from his voice. “And she’s good for you.”

“Good for me,” John said, crossing his arms. “There was a time I’d would have agreed with you. Today, not so much. Look what all she’s done and the secrets she’s kept. She’s responsible for the deaths of innocent people.”

“You’ve been happy, John. As happy as I’ve ever seen you--except for maybe after a stimulating murder romp. But that’s adrenaline coursing through you not love, John.”

“I’m surprised...I didn’t think you’d ever put much importance on something as sentimental as love,” John said. “I’m supposed to be the sentimental one. But yeah, I know what you’re referring to--all that time I looked for the right one, and then it just happened when I wasn’t expecting it. Mary happened because I needed to feel alive again so desperately. I wanted something to save me. She brought me back to the world when I was ready to check out of it. I needed her so much then. But need and want and love shouldn’t go together. It’s not healthy. Mary and I, we’re two fucked-up people who are codependents in love. I love her still--God help me. But days like these I just wonder if love is ever enough.”

Sherlock sighed and held John’s eyes realizing that John could be describing his relationship with Sherlock as well.

“All that’s happened since I first fell in love with Mary--I can barely stomach. She hid her past, she shot you, and now I find she killed her family? Tell me, what am I to think? How am I to react?” John asked. “How can I forgive this?”

“All people have secrets--it’s just that some people’s are deeper and darker than others. You forgave me. If you can forgive me for what I did to you, you can forgive Mary.”

“God, Sherlock. What you did, you did to save me and the others. How can that compare to what Mary’s done? I feel like she’s slowly become poison to me. Some people are just poison.”

As John spat out those words, a spark alighted in Sherlock’s brain and his eyes lit up. His magical, special John, who always inspired, illuminated, then pointed to the solution.

“John, you’re brilliant!” he said, jumping up out his chair and kissing him square on the lips, getting a surprised cough from John. “It’s not _something_ \--it’s _someone_!”

“What are you on about?” John asked, then to Sherlock’s surprise, John grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him in.

“Oh, bloody hell!” John swore, then kissed Sherlock hard and not-so-chastely right back on the lips. Sherlock moaned and mashed his mouth into John’s. Not knowing what to do with his arms, Sherlock flailed them around until John took Sherlock’s hands in his and wrapped them around his hips and hooked Sherlock’s fingers into the loops in his jeans. Sherlock’s own hips snapped forward as his mouth opened to welcome John’s roving tongue.

 _All this time wasted when we could have been doing this?_ Sherlock thought. 

“Boys!” came Mrs. Hudson from the bottom of the stairs. “You have company!”

They jumped apart; John smoothed his hands through his hair, and Sherlock clutched his hands together in disappointment and shivered at the loss John’s lips.

“Mycroft is not company,” Sherlock hollered back, flopping his body back into his chair and touching his lips. “I suppose he’s here because of Mary’s visit,” he said to John. “We may as well let him in.”

“Too late little brother,” he said from the doorway. “Where are my manners? Good day, John.”

John gave Mycroft a pained smile, then looked at Sherlock, whose eyes had never left John's. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to shove Mycroft out the door and take John to his bedroom.

“I suppose you know why I am here,” Mycroft said. “Such a dreary day, but any day would be dreary for a conversation such as this.”

“Oh, quit with your melodrama,” Sherlock said, locking his ankles, “and tell us what you’ve been keeping from me about the case.”

“Oh, dear,” Mycroft said, studying John and Sherlock closely, “I didn’t interrupt something, did I?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John blushed furiously. 

“Well, you two will need to sort that out on your own. As for your case, Sherlock, I’m not here to share information, rather to enlist your help and to confirm that life as we know it on earth may change and not for the better.” With that, Mycroft took a seat on the sofa.

“You need my help. We need your help. No fair exchange, no help,” Sherlock said sharply.

“And the human race can go to bloody hell?” John said. “This is more than just a case, and you know it.”

“No need to worry. The four horsemen of the apocalypse won’t get the chance to mount their steeds if we remain on the case, John. Thanks to John I’ve ascertained that those exposed to the allergen are made hypersensitive through some type of exposure via human contact,” Sherlock said. “Considering, ironically elegant.”

Sherlock stood and began to pace around the room in thought.

“May I remind you,” Mycroft said, “that people have died and many more may die. However ‘ironically elegant’ you may think it is, we must stop it or control it. If you are correct, people may be passing this from one to the other.”

“But this is an allergic reaction not a contagious disease,” John pointed out.

“Yes, but people become sensitized through prolonged exposure,” Mycroft said. “If the allergen is another person, we must find the person or persons in common with all of the victims.”

Sherlock stopped in front of Mycroft and looked pointedly down at him. “We need more data, and he has it in that smarmy brain of his. Give us what you know, starting with this Culverton Smith,” Sherlock said.

“I’m afraid Mr. Smith has been rather elusive. We’ve yet to tie him to the recent victims. True he has a keen love for biological warfare. Any intelligence linking his past proclivities to use of said weapons is tenuous at best. Still, he is a very dangerous man, Sherlock. In many ways, he makes Moriarty look like a simpleton.”

Mycroft wasn’t one for exaggeration--to say this about this man gave Sherlock pause, but more worrisome to Sherlock was how John reacted when he heard the words.

“Is he connected in any way to Techwood?” John asked.

“That question isn’t even worth my time,” Mycroft sighed. “You could have googled to find this answer. Very well! Smith gained controlling interest through amalgamated companies that are now part of Techwood.”

“What about Jillian Stevens?” John said. “I can’t ‘google’ to find that out.”

“So tedious. Sherlock, do keep John up with this. I know those recent knocks on the head have slowed you down a bit, but you really need to step it up.”

“Enough of the insults,” John said. “What is the connection?”

“She works for Techwood,” he answered. “And as you should well know--there are no coincidences.”

“I know that--Sherlock says it enough! That’s not an answer--is she part of this?”

“Yes, but to what degree and cognizance? Uncertain.”

“We’ll find out later,” John added.

“Later?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” John said, “at our meeting with her at five o’clock at the Good Samaritan.”

“I thought you’d been banned from there for life, Sherlock.” Mycroft leaned back and turned to Sherlock. He seemed to be enjoying this far too much for Sherlock’s liking. “What was it? Ah, yes insulted the owner’s daughter, but that was _after_ you took her out on lovely date to procure information. One does not make an after-dinner jaunt to a rather gruesome crime scene where one knows the victim without some repercussions. I’m afraid she became rather hysterical. Her father didn’t like that much, especially since Lestrade drove her home after you referred to her as ‘mealy mouthed.’ I do hope Sherlock takes more pains with you, John. Although jaunts to crime scenes are more of a turn-on in your case.”

“What? No! What do you mean by that?” he asked Mycroft, and then turned to Sherlock. “What does he mean by that?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“This is _not_ a date,” John said.

“Please refrain from following those word up with 'I am not gay',” Mycroft said. “Those protestations are getting old especially considering the position I found you both in moments ago.”

“But I’m...not...” John said, blushing. It was the least convincing words Sherlock had ever heard John utter.

Mycroft smiled. “No, you are correct. I believe the term would be _bisexual_.”

“I think it’s time you left,” Sherlock said. “John and I have a ‘date,’ and we don’t want to be late.”

Mycroft laughed and crossed the room. “Very well. Do have a good time.”

After Mycroft and closed the door at the bottom of the stairs, John turned to Sherlock.

“Is it? a date?”

“In a fashion,” Sherlock answered. “Get ready. We meet this Miss Stevens soon.” Sherlock didn’t think it would take long to question her and send her on her way. “And do make reservations somewhere else.”

 

\--------------------------------

 

After insisting they still meet at the Good Samaritan, John convinced Sherlock that a disguise wasn’t necessary. Instead, John called ahead and asked for a private table in _his_ name and made sure that the neither the owner nor his daughter were working that night. Luck would have it, neither of them were. They’d managed to get seated with no snafus.

Sherlock grumbled a bit about the simple menu, but the John loved the place. The booth they’d gotten was tucked discretely away, and John said he thought of the table as “quaint” and “a nice place for a pint.” No candles on the table, but that wasn’t necessary--after all this was for work not some romantic dinner. John ordered an ale and Sherlock whiskey.

“You did notice that this place is in the middle of a hospital,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, of course I noticed,” John said, taking a swig of his ale. “And the room is filled with doctors, and I’m sure you could tell more about each and everyone of them.”

Sherlock smiled at the suggestion. He loved to play this game with John, but there was no time since the young woman had arrived and was talking to an attractive waiter, who nodded toward their table. She leaned into the waiter and smiled, tilting her head in interest, her purse hanging loosely to the side. Dressed in a deep red a-line skirt with matching pumps and a tight smoke-grey cashmere sweater, Sherlock noted all the eyes that her followed her as passed each table. He looked over at John, who had noticed her too. He immediately straightened his back, turned toward her, then stood up.

Three continents Watson pulled the chair out, making Sherlock cringe inside. When he looked at her, however, he noted that her eyes were not for John but were instead for him. While used to this unwanted attention, Sherlock felt a mixture of anger that she’d slighted John and relief that she had no interest in him.

“Sherlock, this is Jillian Stevens,” John said. “Jillian, this is Sherlock Holmes.” She reached to shake his hand, eyes still devouring him, but Sherlock didn’t budge.

“Introductions are quite unnecessary, considering,” Sherlock said. “Please take a seat Miss Stevens.”

First she turned to the waiter and ordered a whiskey sour, then turned to sit, but as John reached out to help her, Sherlock caught his wrist. Her lips pursed in confusion, and John, equally confused, frowned at Sherlock.

“Until we know for sure how your brother died, I would refrain from skin-to-skin contact of any sort, Miss Stevens.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“I realize that,” Sherlock said. “And I’m sure that you would not want to be responsible for any other unexpected deaths.”

“Any other? I thought that after I spoke to detective Lestrade last night, that I was no longer under suspicion.”

“You aren’t--not wittingly,” Sherlock said. “But I need to know how you became a hypersensitive allergen thus causing your brother’s death.”

“What are you talking about? You must be kidding?” she said.

“No, most assuredly, I am _not_ kidding. That you are the unwitting vehicle of your brother’s recent death,” Sherlock said, trying his best to project the most emphatic voice and posture possible, “and conceivably that of many others must be most distressing for you.”

The look John shot Sherlock let him know that his efforts to comfort her were a bit not good.

Suddenly, her breath became labored and sweat broke out on her overly-powdered brow. She visibly trembled. Sherlock looked to John to calm her, and he seemed to be at a loss.

“This can’t be,” she choked out.

She gasped and clutched her chest. John jumped up but Sherlock simply stated, “Help her, but do not touch her.”

Then the doctor clicked in. He sat calmly down and spoke directly to her. “This is a panic attack. Breathe out and in slowly…” John said, using that his most matter-of-fact doctor voice. “One in...one out...two in...two out...that’s good. Now take deeper breaths…that’s it...now, one in...one out...better...better…”

John had her continue for a few minutes, and Sherlock waved away the concerned waiter after telling him to put her drink on his tab. He set the drink on the table and scurried off

“I’m so sorry,” she said finally, her voice shaking as she took a drink. “I thought I was having a heart attack.”

“That’s pretty common assessment. Panic attacks often feel like that,” John said sympathetically.

“Now that you can speak, I must ask you how long you’ve worked for Techwood One and in what capacity?”

“Sherlock!” John said.

"Yes, now," Sherlock returned.

“That’s fine,” she said to John. “This all must be some kind of misunderstanding. I’m just a clerk who works receiving; I have no contact with anything dangerous! I mean, I know that some people work with some hazardous materials. We’ve had areas sealed off--just two days ago--after an accident, but that was precautionary, and nothing that I’d be exposed to. After the fire, clean up took weeks and weeks, and it was thorough and all above board. Safety first, they say. And I work nowhere near those labs. I just file, work on my computer and call for supplies. You must be mistaken.”

“No mistake,” Sherlock said.

“What about exposure to people who do work in the lab?” John asked. “You must know some of them.”

“Yes, a few people. I’ve been dating this chemist--” she said.

“This was not an accidental exposure. It was planned,” Sherlock concluded. “I believe you were hand picked to carry this allergen and carefully studied to see how long exposure to you was required before onset of each victim’s fatal reaction.”

"Each victim?" she gasped, looking in back of her where Mycroft stood with his assistant Anthea. "Do you know these two?" she asked.

“His name,” Mycroft demanded.

John frowned.

“This is my brother, Mycroft. He thinks he runs the British government.”

“We will need the name of the chemist along with all the names of people you’ve physically touched within the last week," Mycroft said. "Come with us, Miss Stevens. We’ll take care of you. We also need to know the extent of your contact with others over the last few days.”

She looked from Sherlock to John.

“You should go with them,” John said. “If anyone can help you, it’s Mycroft.”

“But I don’t know him! Why should I go with him?”

Two strong-alarmed men dressed in dark suits stepped behind Mycroft. “Because my dear,” Mycroft said, “you have no choice and no other options.”

John leaned toward her, knowing that Mycroft was correct. She had no other choice. “He really will look after you. And I’m sure he’ll put you up somewhere comfortable. Call me or Sherlock if you need anything.”

“I will,” she said weakly as she stood up, but not before downing the rest of her whisky sour in one gulp.

John and Sherlock watched along with all the other curious patrons as Mycroft lead the way out of the pub.

“That didn’t go so well,” John said.

“I thought it went rather well.” Sherlock picked up the menu. “Care to order?”

“You want to eat? After that?”

“Yes. Why not?” Sherlock said, leaning forward toward John. “Think back--you shook her hand when you first met her--did you touch her again?”

John shook his head.

“Good,” Sherlock said, sitting back in relief. ”We don’t know how much exposure one must have to the allergen. The fact that she was obviously in close daily contact with her brother leads me to believe the exposure needs to be direct and repeated. That she tried to resuscitate him, just hastened his death.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, that’s horrifying.”

“Well, I suppose this isn’t the best topic of discussion for a date,” Sherlock said, setting down the menu. ”I think I’ll have chips and a beef burger. What would you like to order? And talk about? What do two regular people talk about on dates? The weather is cliche. What world event would you like to discuss? Or maybe something else that’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know, why don’t we start with what else Mary told you, hmm?” John asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and kind words. Those waiting for Sherlock and John to connect will be happy for the next few chapters. Along with angst. Always angst.


	7. Wind of Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More mystery, angst with Holmes and Watson, who are confronted by the man behind the deadly allergen epidemic. Followed this by a hot make out session (that will be continued in the next chapter--sorry, you'll have to wait for the really hot stuff) and you have one interesting holiday read.

After John’s last pointed question regarding Mary, Sherlock sat motionless. _Obvious_ , Sherlock deduced, _John knows what Mary told me_.

_That she would share._

She encouraged Sherlock to bed John. That John wanted Sherlock, _loved Sherlock,_ surprised him--and that rarely happened. The memory of “the kiss” was enough to make Sherlock’s heart thump erratically and his face flame with heat. The very core of him was reset. He wondered if he was still Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Love had clouded his judgement before this. Sherlock found as he looked at John that he did not care. Just the memory of the taste of John Watson left Sherlock hard under the table. That had never happened to Sherlock before this. And to make matters worse, there was nothing he would rather do at that moment than to drag John bodily over the table and kiss him silly.

It defied all logic.

Yet the logical bulk of his brain knew too, too well that despite John’s earlier enthusiasm, John’s moral compass would win in the end. Even with Mary’s blessing, John would feel torn. Afterall there was the baby. Just a day ago, Sherlock had felt torn too, but to his personal chagrin, he no longer felt doubt or remorse for his feelings. He wanted John, and he would have him if only for a day. Even if it came to only one, brief encounter, he would keep each second they shared tangled together and lock it up inside a special room reserved his mind palace--to replay and replay and replay.

But doubt and remorse were already eating at his blogger. As Sherlock studied John from across the table,  John rubbed the back of his neck, then played with his napkin. _John was nervous._ With that thought, Sherlock determined that it’s best to deflect the conversation for a more private setting where they can act on their feelings. Talk was overrated. They may never realize his fondest wish if they stop, talk and analyze it.

“There is a connection with the other victims to people who work for Techwood One,” Sherlock said, adjusting his collar. “We need only look into the victims’ place of employment--no matter how covert or deep the tendrils of Culverton Smith’s web of businesses connections, we will find them.” 

To give his hands something to do other that ripping his napkin into shreds, John waved the waiter over for another pint, and Sherlock nodded. He wasn’t one to indulge, but another shot of whiskey might help ease his own bubbling nerves.

To distract himself, Sherlock took a closer inspection of Bill the waiter, revealing that he dated that atrocious daughter of the proprietor! Sherlock chided himself for missing this detail earlier. The long platinum blonde hairs with dark roots paired with tufts of grey angora cat fur (from “Kitty” or “Boots” or “Bitsy” or whatever that insipid cat’s name was) were clues hard to miss even for an amateur detective, but conjoined with the essence of the tacky-yet-rare Gingham Innoxa Parfum that lingered on the waiter’s jacket afforded Sherlock no room for doubt for even the dullest of detectives that Bill was intimately involved with _her_. This Bill also had a proclivity for drinking on the job--as the scotch on his breath and his unsteady hand indicated. No doubt that he needed a few stiff drinks to tolerate whatever-her-cat’s-name-was mistress.

Sherlock blinked as John brought him back. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the case,” John said. “You know? Not good date conversation?”

“And talking about Mary would be better,” Sherlock stated.

“Can we order? I’d like to eat.”  John sat back and looked squarely at Sherlock.

“Or we could talk about Bill’s alcohol problem, and who he’s sleeping with…” Sherlock suggested.

“Sherlock, enough,” John snapped. “I’m sorry, you need to excuse my partner,” John said to Bill. “He forgets himself.”

Even if he was referring to their relationship in the professional sense, Sherlock’s pulse skipped a beat hearing John refer to him as his partner.

“That’s quite alright,” Bill said. “I expected as much when I recognized him. I could have had him _removed_ immediately, you know. Now, I'm going to do just that.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” John said quickly standing up and getting his coat. “We will be on our way. Let’s go, Sherlock.”

John threw Sherlock the death stare as they left. “Make that one more establishment you gotten me thrown out of,” he said. No doubt he was irritable from not eating.

Sherlock had one more reason to loath this place other than the banishment from the overprotective father of a jilted paramour. John was pouting over it although Sherlock was also rather happy to get back to Baker Street where they could order some Thai take away. _After._ He would need to "smooth the waters" as John said. First he needed to placate John on the ride home. He was still a bit techy over the bad dinner date. Sherlock watched as John took charge and hailed a cab. He practically pushed Sherlock inside which made Sherlock a bit excited yet anxious. Emotions were so confusing! On the seat between, all that separated them was a few inches and John’s right hand. It rested and brushed against Sherlock’s leg, sending intermittent flutters through his stomach. It wasn’t until they were almost halfway to Baker Street that John finally deemed to speak to him.

“I think considering what we started earlier,” John said, “we need to clear the air.”

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock said, exasperated. He hated it that it bothered him so that John hadn’t faced him to speak. He wanted to avoid speaking altogether, yet if they must, not looking upon John’s face left him hollow. He knew he couldn’t avoid the discussion though--once John got a hold of an idea, he was like a pitbull.

He might as well confess. He sighed and said, “I did omit one bit of information.”

John crossed his arms and sat back waiting, and Sherlock longed for John’s hand to brush against his leg again, to take that hand in his, kiss his fingers one by one. Later for that. A least there was the hope of later as long as he tread carefully.

“Mary said she’d share you,” Sherlock blurted out. He wanted to slam his head against the back of the seat at the stupidity of his statement. So much for stepping carefully.

“What?!” he said, slapping his hand back between them. “I knew it! I told her not to say anything to you. She just couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Nice of her to offer to play Solomon and suggest she split me down the middle. Of course she wouldn’t give me a heads up.”

Sherlock let out the breath he’d been holding in relief. At least John didn’t blame him for keeping this from him--he was only angry with Mary. But his anger was misplaced. Mary was not a jealous wife ready to cut John in half. She was sharing John, and she was helping Sherlock.

“I don’t think she should have given you a ‘heads up’ as you say,” Sherlock said, working to explain. “She told me that you didn’t believe I felt the same. That’s why she told me since you misunderstood your feelings for me as I did for you," Sherlock said, pausing for a moment. "And I might add that I do believe your allusion to Solomon is inaccurate if you think it applies here--at least in the outcome. She never suggested the end result be that we split you in half.”

“Well, if she implied that she wants to share, she was intentionally misleading you,” John said.

“She didn’t imply. She stated it explicitly.”

“I don’t believe she was being truthful with you then, if that’s the case,” John said, swiping his hand over his face. “Sherlock, you’re a genius, but when it comes to emotions and matters of the heart, you’re clueless. Her offer was _never_ genuine. I can see in your face that you don’t believe it. But I don’t believe _her_ ,” he said. “She doesn’t _really_ want to share--she’s only saying that because she feels she has no other option. She expects us to have ‘our fling’ as she called it, and for me to feel guilty, then for you to step back in the end.”

Sherlock took note as John watched through the rear view mirror as the cab driver raised his eyebrow. Curious. Sherlock also noted that John’s mouth twitched in response. Not good. Sherlock was right that John would feel guilty. John admitted it, and he felt guilty now for the admission. What he didn’t know was that Sherlock had no intention of stepping back. Only if John did. And then one step wouldn’t do--he’d have to back away completely.

Sherlock had been so sure Mary was sincere, but in light of what John said, he now doubted her words. After all John was correct about Sherlock’s inability to read emotions.

“What she wants is irrelevant to me,” Sherlock said, finally. “It’s what you want.”

“Bloody nice of you to ask.”

“Then I will ask: John Watson, do you...”

“A cab isn’t the place to talk about this,” John interrupted. “I hadn’t intended to talk to you about this here. In fact, I would be happy if we dropped this until we were at Baker Street.”

The night lights from shops and autos danced around the interior of the cab, distorting perception. Honking horns and night sounds echoed. Over the next three London blocks, Sherlock’s anxiety grew as every sight and sound bounced between them. They remained silent, wrapped in thought.

At last John spoke. “So you want this...” John waved between them. “...us...”

To Sherlock’s relief, John did not wish to wait after all to answer. Then, all the earlier reticence John had radiated, evaporated.

“Yes,” Sherlock said in a hushed voice. “I thought I’d made that rather clear when I reciprocated with my tongue after you kissed me, but my earlier declaration should have made my feelings quiet clear.”

John barked back a laugh, startling himself. He took a moment to compose. “And you’d like to take this further,” John whispered, leaning into Sherlock, hand reaching for his.

“Yes, of course, John.” His heart skipped a beat as he gripped John’s hand.

“How much further?” John’s blue eyes flickered, and Sherlock felt the nightlights far more enchanting mirrored in the irises of John’s eyes.

While the moment continued, the cab idled at the corner of Saint Martin’s near Bart’s, waiting for a red light.

“As far as you’re comfortable with,” Sherlock answered, his long fingers ghosting over John’s worn knuckles.

“You’ve done this before?”

A knock on the window startled them both, and their hands drew apart. Sherlock recognized the silhouette immediately as it came into full view through the steamy window. Grey hair, expensive coat--the man looked just like the photos he’d seen of him in google images. Horns honked behind the cab. The light had changed, yet the driver did not budge. The man tapped at their window again--this time with a unsettling smirk on his face.

Sherlock rolled down the window enough for the man to speak through.

“Isn’t this cozy?” the man said, face pushed against the window. “Mind if I join you both?”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock flung the door open and scooted over, pushing John flush to other side of the cab.

“Mr. Culverton Smith, I presume?” Sherlock said, as their guest sat down heavily next to him and shut the door. Smith motioned for the cab driver to go and continued to drive down toward the London Stock Exchange.

Sherlock could not recall ever having such an immediate revulsion for another. Culverton Smith’s mere touch seeped through him and an utterly nauseating disgust threatened to overwhelm his senses. For one who rarely acknowledged instinctual reactions, Sherlock catalogued this within his mind palace. 

“What is consciousness?” Smith asked, shaking Sherlock out of his stupor.

“I say, that’s a rather odd conversation starter,” John said. “Even for a master criminal. I would think a better question for you would be to ask what a conscience is.”

“My, my, such a complementary assistant!” Smith said, smiling wickedly at Sherlock. “I am so honored by his sharp tongue--but that’s something you would know _more_ about--however, let’s answer the question at hand. I posit: What is consciousness?”

Sherlock determined that he might as well play Smith's game and see what he wanted. _The more interaction, the more Smith will reveal._

“Simplistically, it’s the state of awareness, or scientifically, it’s billions of neurons firing and speaking to each other,” Sherlock explained. ”It’s been debated as to whether or not it could ever be defined philosophically.”

“And medically speaking, doctor?” Smith posed.

John hesitated and looked to Sherlock, who nodded for him to answer.

“It’s assessed by observing a patient's arousal and responsiveness,” John said, continuing clearing his throat. “For example: Is the patient completely alert? Responsive to stimuli? Does the patient comprehend what’s asked? Can the patient communicate?”

“Ah, and when might consciousness begin and end, Doctor Watson?” Smith said leaning heavily into Sherlock to capture John’s gaze. “In the womb? At the moment of death?”

John’s face paled visibly with those words, prompting a base, primitive anger in Sherlock. His back went rigid against the seat of the cab. His jaw clenched, and knuckles turned white as he clutched them tight.

“Is that some sort of threat?” John sneered.

“Mere curiosity,” Smith said, looking directly into John’s eyes. “But a wise man would walk away and keep those he holds dear to him safe.”

“Jesus Christ,” John swore. “You are one sick fuck threatening my wife and unborn child.”

“You make her sound so defenseless,” Smith laughed.

“What is the purpose of this little confrontation?” Sherlock demanded. “If it’s to intimidate us, it won’t work. Many have tried before you. We are still here, and _they_ are not.”

Smith laughed harder still. “Well, well, isn’t this a shining moment: I’ve unsettled the great Sherlock Holmes and his faithful assistant. I _am_ enjoying this. Listen closely and I’ll share something, actually I will make a promise to you both.” He raised his hand in pledge. “I promise to take what each of love most in this world and turn it against you.”

“Get out!” Sherlock shouted. “Stop the cab!” Not that Sherlock believed for a moment that the cab driver would listen to one word he said. No, it was obvious from the start he was in Smith’s pocket, but Sherlock needed Smith to witness the depth of his fury.

“Now, now, Mr. Holmes. Don’t be so hasty. I have a bit more to impart to you.”

“I’d rather _you_ answer a few questions instead,” Sherlock barked out.

Smith smiled sickly and raised up his index finger. “One,” he said, “you may ask one question, and I will answer it.”

Sherlock straighten his back further and squinted his eyes as he looked ahead as they passed St. Sepulcher's Church. “What is the cure for the allergen?” Sherlock asked.

“The cure _is_ the allergen.”

“That’s not an answer,” John spat out. “That’s a damn riddle. Enough of your riddles.”

“Anger is such a productive emotion! Let’s work on that anger! Another riddle for fun then?” Smith said, his lips a thin, twitching line. “I’ll throw this one in as an extra! This is just for you, Sherlock: The road to eternal life is death.”

“I didn’t take you for a religious fanatic,” Sherlock bit out.

“This isn’t about religion, it’s about science,” Smith said as he stepped out of the cab at Snow Hill. “Take them to Baker Street,” he said to the driver. “Don’t worry about the cab fee, you’ve already paid for it in entertainment. Until next time!” he said laughing as he shut the door.

They rode for a few moments in silence, John reaching for Sherlock’s hand. This time he grasped it like a lifeline not like a lover.

“Can we get out Harley Street?” John asked. “I’d like to walk a bit of the way home.”

“Pull the cab over near at Harley,” Sherlock said to the driver who nodded in acknowledgment.

Sherlock was not surprised that the driver did as he was asked. No reason to keep them now that Smith had done his damage.

It was Sherlock’s turn to pull John out of the cab. John leaned heavily against him.

“I’m calling Mary,” John said.

“Yes, you should.”

As John pulled his phone out, worry spread through Sherlock like a toxin. Unsure what to do, he walked away and sat on a near by bench to give John privacy and watched as John talked to Mary. Sherlock’s mind supplied the rest. He bowed his head unable to watch anymore. He didn’t know how he missed John’s approach. Years of stealth military training, he supposed. It wasn’t until he felt John’s fingers resting on the his cheek that he looked up into those tender blue eyes and realized John was there.

“You’re cold,” John said, gathering Sherlock’s scarf up around his neck. “Let’s get you home.” He held out his hand and pulled Sherlock up off the bench. Sherlock tugged John’s hand along with his into one of his coat’s deep, Irish-wool pockets. They walked that way home as Sherlock mind turned over the evening’s events: Miss Steven’s physical state, Smith’s riddles, John’s actions.

“I told Mary what happened,” John said finally. “She was a bit upset to say the least. Irene was there. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually relieved that they’re together in this--at least they can watch out for each other since Mary refuses to let me help in any way…”

“I’ll make sure they stay safe,” Sherlock said. “Whatever it takes. I swore to protect the three of you, and I will no matter what.”

“Sherlock, don’t you go off and do something half cocked without me. We’re in this together.”

Sherlock nodded and squeezed John’s hand as they continued down Baker Street.

“I can’t be without my blogger, now can I?” he said, voice cracking a bit in anticipation.

At the door, they stood, the cold wind whipping his Belstaff around and slapping against John and Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock unlocked the door and pulled John inside with him. The chill from the outside did little to cool them down as John slammed Sherlock against the wall in the staircase, heads bumping together and arms wrapped around each other in hot embrace.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” John asked.

“Despite what others say about my complexion, I’m not made of porcelain,” Sherlock said.

“Okay, you daft git. Shut up and kiss me.”

Sherlock bent his head down and took John’s bottom lip in his teeth and nipped. John opened his mouth in welcome, and Sherlock’s eager tongue ravaged the inside of John’s mouth. Sherlock relished the deep moans that erupted from John. Better, John rutted against his leg. This was how he’d wanted John--cock hard and needy against his thigh and eyes filled with lust. Despite his eagerness, Sherlock still felt the qualms from earlier in the evening weigh deep in his heart.

“Enough, boys!” said Mrs. Hudson, popping her head out of her door. “As much as I love the entertainment, I think you should take this upstairs.” Sherlock watched her over John’s head, and she gave him a wink, then shut her door.

“Upstairs it is!” John chuckled.

  
Sherlock felt the heaviness that had pressed against his chest lift with John’s bright laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome. As always I would like some constructive feedback, comments and happy thoughts.


	8. Love is a Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, finally, our favorite detective team get intimate. Of course, the case comes up to complicate an already complicated relationship.
> 
> ********************

No time to think. For once Sherlock did not want to think. Feel, only feel. His John was touching him! His hand gripping him through his trousers, kneading him, raising harsh moans that Sherlock never knew were deep within him.

Sherlock loved the feel of John’s cock rock-hard pressed against him. They’d barely made it into the apartment before their mouths connected in a mighty clash. John’s skills at kissing were unsurpassed. All the women he’d wooed seemed inconsequential to Sherlock. Mary was inconsequential. The baby was inconsequential. Only John. John with his wanton lips and tongue.

“Clothes, clothes, too many clothes,” John mumbled between breaths as he pulled off Sherlock’s scarf and coat, then began unbuttoning his purple Dolce shirt. “Bedroom!” John shouted as he began to undress himself as they moved to Sherlock’s room.

“You didn’t answer earlier if you’d done this before,” John said, as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind them.

Sherlock spilled across the bed with John following on top of him.

“I’m not a complete virgin,” Sherlock said, groaning as he pulled John’s hips in line with his.

“And that means?” John said, thrusting their cocks together.

“I’ve had some sexual experiences with men and women.”

John didn’t hesitate with Sherlock’s admission. Instead he planted kiss after kiss along Sherlock’s throat while Sherlock rolled his hips creating an erotic instead of the erratic friction from earlier. 

“God, that feels good, but it would be so much better without the trousers.”

“Agreed,” said Sherlock, pushing John off and struggling to wrench them down. He looked up to see John had magically removed all his clothes. John was a marvel! All skin and freckles and that beautiful scar to kiss and explore. Want. Want. Want.

“I’ll help you with those,” John said and all Sherlock could do was nod in approval as he was divested of the rest of his clothes.

“Jesus, you are one beautiful man,” John said. Sherlock had heard those same words so many times before, but they never meant anything until uttered from one John Watson’s gorgeous lips. Those same lips that could perform wonders. Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and pulled him in.

He needed.

Yes. That. That touch. Tracing down his hip, feather light. Grazing across the head of his cock. He jerked up involuntarily into John’s palm. John bent to kiss him and grasped his cock firmly. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought of nothing else but the way John made him ache. He must have let out  an agonized groan while  John stroked him as  John pulled back and looked at Sherlock’s eyes squeezed tight.

“How’s your head? Are you okay?” John asked, concern in his voice.

Sherlock opened his eyes briefly to answer. “I”m fine, John, fine. But I won’t be if you stop. Don’t stop.” Then he closed his eyes again and let the sensation of John fisting him ooze through every limb. HIs own fingers clutched John’s hair and reverently rubbed across John’s scar. He loved every part of his blogger. He could come like this so easily, but he wanted to last, to draw this out for as long as possible. He grasped John’s wrist, and John groaned in disappointment as he took his hand from Sherlock’s cock, but the groan turned to ecstasy as Sherlock brought John’s fingers into his mouth and began to suck each one by one.

“Oh, God, Sherlock. Your mouth! Your perfect, sensuous, filthy mouth.”

With that Sherlock worked his way down John’s chest, kissing and biting a line downward toward his goal. John’s breath hitched in anticipation with every nibble and flick of the tongue. He grabbed Sherlock’s curls and tugged at his hair. Sherlock loved every sensation. The taste, the touch, the feel of John. Before, he required that his eyes be closed to envelope himself in the essence that was John. Now all Sherlock wanted was to watch every twitch of the skin, every flutter of his eyes, every heave of his chest. He took it all and stored it in his palace, and he cached it with love and care. He needed every layer, every bit of input no matter how insignificant. Every detail stored in his core memory.

He didn’t hesitate. He took John completely down his throat. John’s whimpers were worth it, despite Sherlock’s struggle to control his gag reflex. He hadn’t done this in years, not since university. He never understood that the act of sex could be treasured like this until he tasted John Watson come down the back of his throat. Better than the appetence was John’s aura at the very moment of release. A glaze of bliss washed over John, eyes fluttering, face muscles relaxing. A younger John smiled at him. A new smile.  A smile of John’s that Sherlock had yet to catalogue.

“My turn,” John said, opening his eyes and rolling onto his side. “But first bring that wicked mouth up here so I can thank you properly for the most amazing blow job I ever had in my entire life.”

Sherlock shimmied across his Egyptian cotton sheets and up to John’s waiting lips, his eyes never leaving his. The anticipation was most delicious.

“Come here, you gorgeous git,” John said. Sherlock pulled himself up flush to John. His cock leaving a wet trail of precome up John’s leg. John took his mouth and his tongue traced the path his cock had made, fucking Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and tasting himself.

John mouth left his suddenly, and he looked down at Sherlock with a devilish smirk.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” John said. “But on to what I’ve always wanted to do more.” His head ducked down kissed the head of Sherlock’s cock as he scratched his nails over his nipples. Sherlock was surprised at how erotic it felt. He never thought he would enjoy that. He knew, however, nothing would ever compare to John taking his cock into his mouth and sucking him off.

“I’ve never done this before--had it done to me plenty of times, so I know what feels good to me,” John admitted. “If I can make you feel a fraction as good as you just made me feel, I’ll be doing good.”

It was like every dream and hope and wish came true at once. His John. On his knees between his legs, like he was praying to him. He watched in awe as John tested his skills, taking him halfway down his throat and felt him twirling his tongue around playfully. He took one of Sherlock’s hands and rested in his sandy hair. Sherlock marveled on how soft it felt in his fingers. John began bob his head, and take Sherlock down his throat still farther. John’s body had now slid almost flat on the sheets between his legs on the bed with Sherlock’s fingers still rejoicing in the feel of the silky strands. John held the base of Sherlock’s cock taut with one hand and his other explored and played with his pucker, then he wet his finger and pushed gently inside, eliciting  a hiss from Sherlock.

Sherlock watched, gripping the sheets with one hands and John’s hair with the other. He felt a helpless need inside. When had he started crying?

John met Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, are you alright? Say something.”

“I’m fine, John. I just never thought, never dreamed. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” 

John pushed his index finger inside him and took him deep down his throat, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. Once, twice, three times he rocked forward, engulfing Sherlock. Then John’s finger crooked and curled, then brushed a place inside that had never been caressed. He’d had orgasms before, of course he had. But this was new--euphoric waves crashed through his very essence, so enraptured and exhaustive, he didn’t think it possible for his mind palace to ever capture and hold the experience.

In his life, he never slept as sound and satisfied as he did with John beside him that night.

He woke to the smells and sounds of John in the kitchen. His stomach rumbled at the eggs, toast, sausage and coffee that wafted through 221b. Light streamed in the windows, illuminating the spot on the pillow where John's head had rested. As Sherlock rolled over, he felt a delightful ache in places he’d never felt before. Amazing. His head was clear too. He got up and gathered his robe around him and started for the bathroom, hoping John’s guilt hadn’t set in yet. Upon stepping out of bedroom, he heard John actually whistling along with the bang of pots and pans.

That was good.

After, he stepped into the living room and picked up his phone off the sofa, shocked that until that moment he hadn’t even thought to check it. Most uncharacteristic of him. And Lestrade had texted and called. Another body. The Miss Steven’s boyfriend, the chemist. And he couldn’t locate Miss Stevens. He slipped his phone into the pocket of blue dressing gown as he walked into kitchen. His heart warmed immediately as he watched John butter the toast and lick his fingers.

He’s only wore an apron over his t-shirt and boxers, and it was all Sherlock could do to refrain from stepping up in back of him and swatting him on the arse. He moved in behind John to get a hug instead.

“Take a seat,” John said, stepping to the side. “It’s almost ready.”

John’s skittish movement and unsure smile rang alarm bells. He took a seat reluctantly and studied John as he set breakfast on the table and poured the coffee. He avoided looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

Not good.

“You called and talked to Mary, then?” Sherlock surmised.

“Yes, but let’s not talk about it now. Eat some breakfast.”

“She knows.” He could hardly eat with this on his mind.

“Sherlock-k-k,” John said, crossly, “I said, not now.”

“A bit tetchy?” Sherlock said. “I think we could think of something to do that might lift your spirits.”

“Something new on the case?”

It wasn’t what Sherlock had in mind, but John seemed interested.

“Lestrade texted. It seems that another two victims have died under the same circumstances. One of them was Miss Stevens’ boyfriend who worked for Techwood. It seems Mycroft didn’t notify Scotland Yard that Miss Stevens in now under his protection.”

“Well, you better eat first before traipsing off to crime scenes,” John said. “Even if you’re doing much better, your headache is gone and your color is back--"

"And stamina too,” Sherlock joked.

The lighthearted banter rekindled hope in Sherlock.

“John,” he said and awkwardly reached across the table and patted his hand. “We’re good?”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m alright,” he said, dipping his toast in his eggs and taking a bite. “We’re good.”

With that, Sherlock nodded and ate.

 

\--------------------

 

The body was covered and still warm. Another victim. They’d only left Baker Street when Lestrade had called about a new body at Regent’s Park. John talked to Anderson and Lestrade, no doubt relating them Miss Stevens whereabouts, while Sherlock had paced the perimeter and around the body, checking for clues among yellow autumn beech tree leaves. Sadly, the rain had washed away any trace of footprints. He wiped away the rivulets that washed into his eyes as he checked for any clues carelessly left behind around the body. The leaves weren’t scattered as he expected. The scene was clean. Too clean. Distant sirens and a rumble of thunder turned Sherlock’s attention closer yet to the body. He knelt down and lifted the sheet and carefully searched and observed.

“Ah! Come here,” he said as he motioned for John.

He grabbed John’s forearm and pulled John flush to him as he scanned the body. “Closer! Honestly John, they already know something is off.”

While John had taken great pains to distance himself from Sherlock since they’d arrived at the scene, his not-so covert hungry stares had proved a distraction to more than Sherlock. It was apparent that while Anderson was slow, he was fast enough to catch that something was different between them--however misconstrued Anderson’s assumptions were, as he crudely suggested that they’d had a “lover’s spat.” As for Lestrade, he’d caught John’s lingering looks and raised eyebrows. Donovan had merely rolled her eyes.

“Mycroft called me to say that all is set,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear.

Realization slowly resonated on John’s face. “What? _Right_. You mean he’s made arrangements to help you break into Techwood again? After the last botched incident?”

“No, _we_ are,” Sherlock corrected.

“Of course we are,” John said, eyes following Lestrade as he stalked up to them.

“It’s the hands,” Sherlock stressed, speaking loud enough for Lestrade to catch what he said clearly. “No gloves, yet not chapped from cold. And the position of the body. Arranged. But most of all, even Anderson couldn’t miss the bottom of the man’s trainers!”

“What about the trainers?” Lestrade asked.

“No mud. No dirt. Clean treads. The rain couldn’t possibly wash it all away. He didn’t die here. His body was obviously dumped in this spot. In fact, look around the body. It’s as if he were teleported here. And why here? Yes, why here. How many of the victims have been found in parks? Six now? The rest of the body is clean too. No traces of what he was: New shoes, new jogging suit, no watch or jewelry. No identification. Even has on new pants.”

“Sherlock, it’s pretty difficult to dump a body here unnoticed--ah, and you checked his pants?!” Lestrade laughed. “The great detective checks for clean underwear!”

“Please, stay focused,” Sherlock said, sharply. “You jog, Lestrade. Would you go jogging in new trainers? Or new clothes? These are not the clothes he died in. Someone changed his clothes and left him in this spot. No doubt, it’s a message,” Sherlock said finally.

“A message? Of course it’s always a bloody message,” Lestrade said. “What else could it be?”

“Do check into his close friends and lovers,” Sherlock instructed. “You’ll discover one of them is employed by Techwood One.”

“You’re not on about that place again, are you?” Lestrade said.

“He never stopped,” John added as his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it then stepped back.

“What’s going on with you two?” Lestrade asked, leaning into Sherlock. “Everyone has noticed.”

“Sherlock?” John said, looking up abruptly from the screen.

“I’d ask John, but he so techy. Donovan said John had moved back in with you,” Lestrade continued. “How come I’m always the last to learn these things?”

“Sherlock! It’s Mary!” The expression of shock and anguish on John’s face told Sherlock all. “She’s gone into labor. And it’s too early,” he added under his breath.

“Where is she?”

“She’s already at Bart’s. Irene took her. I should have been there. It should have been me,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of them, leaves clinging to his shoes. “I need to be there. God, why didn’t I look at the messages before this?” He turned to Greg in desperation. “I know it’s asking a lot, but can you take me?”

Greg nodded, “No problem.”

Sherlock followed.

When they got to the hospital, it was too late. Mary and the baby were already gone.


	9. I Let Him Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lieutenant Wolf for the incredible beta and suggestions. Also thanks to everyone in this wonderful, supporting fandom.

“Gone! How can a pregnant woman in labor just disappear!?” John said pacing up and down the corridor.

“No need to panic. It’s Mycroft!” Sherlock said. “It must be Mycroft! He witnessed our confrontation with Culverton on CCTV. Irene contacted him, then he whisked her away somewhere safe to have the baby--that’s all John.”

“How come Irene doesn’t know where they went then?”

“Please! Do you think my brother would ever deign to divulge any information regarding  his plans? He swoops in, nabs his prey and soars off with it clutched in his razor talons.”

“Oh, that’s comforting! And where is that...that...woman now? I need to talk to her.”

“She hasn’t texted back since her first message to me.” Sherlock checked his phone again.

“And from Mycroft?” John asked.

“Nothing.”

“Great, that’s just bloody, great.”

“John, Sherlock!” Lestrade said, as he ran up to them. “Looks like Mary never arrived here!”

“Stating the obvious. You won’t find anything,” Sherlock said. Lestrade raised his eyebrow.

“Sherlock thinks Mycroft is behind this,” John explained.

“We’re checking the CCTV to see where they were last located,” Lestrade said, stepping closer to John. “I have to go check with Donovan. I’m sorry, John--this should be a happy time for you. Instead... well, not to worry...we’ll find them.” He squeezed John’s shoulder, then cleared his throat and stepped back when he noticed Sherlock glaring at him. “I’ll inform you  immediately when I know more.”

“Know more?” Sherlock snorted."Doubtful."

Lestrade chose to ignore Sherlock’s last barb and waved to them as he rushed down the hallway. As if in response, Sherlock’s coat pocket vibrated. “That would be Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he answered on speaker phone. “Ah, yes. Speak!”

“Is that any way to answer your phone, brother mine?”

“Where is Mary?” John shouted, trying to grab the phone from Sherlock’s hand. “Nobody at this bloody hospital knows!”

“Not to worry. We have Mary and your daughter secured.”

“Daughter?” John said, desperately looking pale, rumpled and overjoyed. “I have a daughter.” Sherlock quickly stepped up next to John and offered his support. John gratefully leaned into him. “A daughter,” he whispered in awe.

“Yes, John, that’s right,” Sherlock said with a slow smile.

“There were some complications, however,” Mycroft added.

John knuckles turned white as he clutched Sherlock’s coat. “Complications? Mycroft!”

“I’m afraid Mary suffered a postpartum hemorrhage, but not to worry--the bleeding is now under control, and she is being closely monitored.”

“I need to be see her now. She just had our daughter, for Christ’s sake.”

“Mycroft?! John is right. He needs to be there with Mary and his daughter.”

“Not to happen. My, my, have you forgotten _your mission_? A mere child can’t be allowed to muck up something as important as a national crisis. I’ve sent Anthea to fetch you both. In fact she should be there about…”

“...now,” Sherlock  finished, nodding to Anthea as she stepped up next to John. “This is simply unacceptable, Mycroft. John can’t do it. I will go alone if I someone must.”

“No, Sherlock. You’re not going,” John said forcefully. “And neither am I.”

“I thought you’d both say that--that’s why I’m putting Mary on the phone. For once in your life do as your dear big brother asks and take your phone off speaker. Mary wishes to speak to John privately.”

Sherlock handed his phone to John without another word, regarding him carefully as he spoke to Mary. When done, John handed the phone back, blue eyes glistening. Sherlock was always surprised at how profoundly John’s distress affected him.

“We’re both going with Anthea,” he said simply to Sherlock. That was that. They followed her out of Bart’s, and Sherlock’s concern deepened with every stride. John intentionally kept two steps behind them.

Sherlock opened the door for Anthea and intentionally hesitated before getting into the car. Sherlock turned around and tilted his head, pale eyes searching. He needed to see John’s face, to access his anguish and define it. Instead, John did it for him in a few words.

“I feel like a bag full of marbles spilled across a floor.” This did little to relieve Sherlock’s anxiety.

The gap between them increased as they rode to their destination in Mycroft’s black limo. He detested it. Spotless seats, no lint, dirt or spot of past food or drink. Not one telling streak or smudge on the windows. It was positively pristine. At that moment all Sherlock wanted to do was to hold John close in a space _that was them_. Not in this nil space where there wasn’t a bit of data to catalog or piece of evidence to analyze. No amount of cocaine or nicotine patches could fill the absence he felt at that moment. Being near Watson connected him to what it was to feel. He needed to feel. He needed it so badly.

It was everything.

 

\----------------------------

And Sherlock cared. But he still didn’t ask John what Mary said to him to convince him that he must go on Mycroft’s “mission.” Sometimes all this sentiment confused Sherlock, but despite how poorly he understood human emotions, he understood what he missed. All he had to do was watch John as he’d spoken to Mary and he knew. John rubbed his face and pinched his brow as he listened to Mary’s words. John shook his head once, twice. He heard words he didn’t want to hear. Then he’d blinked just as if Magnussen had flicked him again. Sherlock recalled the anguish and anger John experienced when Magnussen had done that. That anguish fed directly into Sherlock’s heart and mind. To see that same reaction from John again was almost unbearable. “Yes,” John had said quietly to her, his voice raw. Then “I will.” That she was lying to John about her condition seemed probable to Sherlock. He was sure John knew that as well. But for some reason hidden to Sherlock and John, she needed what was in Techwood’s files more than John at her or their daughter’s bedside.

And since Sherlock always needed John at his side, he would accept not knowing Mary’s reasons. Afterall, he had John for the moment. For now. He would always want John for more than a moment. But needing and wanting and having were never companions. Not for Sherlock. At least not today.

But he did need John.

From the ache etched into John’s face, Sherlock deduced she’d said she loved him and that she knew what happened the night before between her husband and Sherlock. The gap between them in the car being conclusive evidence.

It almost came as a relief then to put on the unwashed maintenance uniforms Mycroft had provided as disguise since the experience left John’s cheeks hot and flushed. For Sherlock, it was hardly what he’d wished for their first back seat of a car experience, but he would take what he could get. Anthea seemed rather entertained by the clumsiness of it all--that and she found humor in the utter look of disgust on Sherlock’s face from the condition of the uniforms.

“They’ll know we’re coming just from the smell,” Sherlock complained under his breath. He clenched his teeth and swore he’d get even with Mycroft for the indignity of it all.

Entering from the service doors to the building proved satisfactory. No one, not even the one security guards they encountered in the mezzani, minded two janitors with cleaning cart and supplies. The identification cards along with the uniforms Mycroft provided came directly from two current employees, an Alan Sharpe and Michael Chabon. Mycroft was managing the cameras hidden in the crooks of the glass arcades, but the two still kept chins lowered and  facing the high-polished marble floors as much as possible. Slipping into the sensitive top floor was elementary. After that all they needed to do was locate the office where the database files were and copy them. Since Mycroft did not know which room housed them, Sherlock scanned the floor to find out.

Sherlock liked it when John silently marveled as Sherlock deduced. He took pleasure as he covertly dissected the surroundings: _Glass. Everything reflective. Everything visible. Window upon window. No employee privacy. Doors transparent. Hollow._

“Mop and pail,” Sherlock said, voice echoing in the open cupola above them. Mycroft insisted on silly code words for “the mission” to indicate that Sherlock had determined which room contained the files. Easy enough to deduce since the architecture of the building revealed the deficient trust of the Techwood team. From room to room, lobby to lobby all the same chrome, glass and steel left one’s eyeline unbroken. Naked. No office where any employee was left unobserved. Except one. Simple to find the one-way mirrored wall looking from inside out. It was that room’s door Sherlock sidled up to.

Sherlock slid this ID through the scanner. A red light blinked and Sherlock blinked in response, yet he was unsurprised. Again he tried. Then John handed him his ID with the same result. Understandable that security would be tightened after the last attempt.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice came from the other side of the door as it opened a crack. “Welcome.”

“I don’t believe this!” John hissed. “What are you doing here?”

Irene. The woman. She waved them into the room. John came along grudgingly.

“Lucky for you I’m here,” she said, waving a flashdrive in Sherlock’s face. “You needed a hand getting inside. I already took what I needed. I’m out of here, and I’ll leave you two to finish, then slink around the labs--unless you’d like company.”

“That won’t be necessary,” John said as Sherlock quickly stepped behind the large chrome and glass desk to access the PC secured beneath. He inserted the flash and scrolled through the files he needed and dragged the files to the flash.

“She should stay,” Sherlock said, looking up from the Dell monitor on the desk. “She might prove to be helpful.”

She looked from John to Sherlock and smiled wickedly. “I just love happy endings.”

“What are you on about?” John asked.

“It’s obvious you’ve both done the dirty,” she said to John. “Did he shag you silly?”

“Done!” Sherlock said, ignoring Irene as he pulled out the flash from the drive and put it in his uniform pocket. “We’ll head for the fourth floor labs.”

“I’ll take the stairs and meet you there,” she said with a wink and walked out the door. “I’ll need one of your pass cards to get in.”

“How did you get in here if you don’t have a card?” John asked.

“One of the security guards was kind enough to let me in here. Show a bit of leg and a girl can open all sorts of doors. He was rather nice man, so sorry that he met with a tiny accident afterward,” she said, pointing to the cabinet door in the corner.

“I bet he did,” John said. “Shift kick to the head? I bet with those pointy heels it hurt like hell.”

“Come John,” Sherlock said as he handed over one of the id cards to Irene, then reached out for John’s arm and tugged him toward the door.

“Will this work?” Irene asked as an afterthought.

“Doubtful, but you’ll find a way in as always,” Sherlock said with a wink.

“Yes, I will,” she said winking back.

John closed his eyes, then opened one and looked at Sherlock. “No, Sherlock, just no,” he said, shaking his head. “What was that about?”

“Jealous?” Sherlock stepped into John’s space. Sherlock could still smell the touch of cinnamon John added to his tea this morning. And his facial expressions--so changeable and so dazzling.

“What? No. Yes. Maybe.”

“Do make up your mind. And when you do, come this way,” Sherlock said, feigning annoyance. “We’re taking that elevator--new security precautions that now require a fingerprint scan which Mycroft so woefully neglected to tell us. We’re taking the service elevator instead. It’s down the hall on the left.”

The wheels creaked as John pulled the cart along behind Sherlock.

“How can she even sneak about in those dominatrix heels of hers?” John asked half to himself.

“Practice,” Sherlock answered. John barked back a laugh, leaving Sherlock a bit pleased that John was still fretting about Irene.

After pushing the cart into the elevator, the doors of the cabin collapsed together with a certain finality. John reached to push the button for the fourth floor. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, a moron could see that the control panel has fourth floor conspicuously absent,” Sherlock said as he reached around John and pushed the third floor button.

“Well, the door not opening on the lab’s floor puts a crimp in our plans,” John said. “Hard to get out there if the elevator doesn’t stop on that floor.”

“John, sometimes you are so obtuse. You’ve watched so many of those dreary thriller movies where the protagonist is stuck in an elevator car. The solution is simple.”

John’s eyes widened as he realized what Sherlock intended. “Oh, no, we’re not breaking out on top of this thing. This isn’t some Hollywood film! People get killed doing stuff like that.”

“ _John_ ,” he said, drawing out his name. He loved to draw out John’s name; it felt so natural yet naughty rolling off his tongue. “If you have a better idea, I'm all ears. And since when did the possibility of death ever deter _you_? It’s not as if we’re on the top floor.”

John grimaced as Sherlock rolled the cart to the cabin’s back corner under the emergency trap door and nimbly climbed on top. Sherlock had considered asking John for a kiss for luck before climbing out, but he really didn’t need luck--just a kiss. In light of the horrified expression John now had on his face, a kiss might have been the preferable choice followed by other movie elevator “activities” he’d witnessed with John on the telly.

Sherlock opened the trap door and climbed out on top into the dark. The shaft smelled of hydraulic fluid, dust and rusty water. He leaned back down through the trapdoor and waved to John, who apprehensively took Sherlock’s hand and let himself be pulled up. Sherlock’s iphone served as a torch.

“I suppose we’re getting on that,” John said, pointing to the ladder.

Sherlock smiled and climbed up the rungs to the door.

“Come on, John. Hurry! I’ve forced the door partially open,” he said, breathing hard, “but it keeps closing. I need you to wedge your body in there, so when I crack it open, I can climb through.”


	10. Break into Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go into Techwood and end up with more than they counted on and argue about snogging.
> 
> Thank you to Lieutenant Wolf for the incredible beta and suggestions. Also thanks to everyone in this wonderful, supportive fandom.

“I thought you said she’d find a way in,” John said, “not beat us to it.”

Miss Adler stood in the open doorway--a sexy siren-like sentinel donned in all black, crooking her finger in welcome.

“She _was_ the way in,” Sherlock said with a crooked smile. “Fingerprints, John! She took fingerprints of man she knocked out! Brilliant!”

“Brilliant? How is that brilliant?” John barked. “Any able-bodied person with the right equipment could do what she did.”

“My, my, the doctor is _in,_ and he _is_ jealous,” Irene laughed. “No need to worry. You have _the right_ equipment, and Sherlock _prefers_ it.”

John crossed his arm and glowered at her. Frankly, he didn’t know what she was on about most of time--she just enjoyed taunting him.

“Enough bickering,” Sherlock said, swiftly  surveying the lab as he stepped with his usual flourish through  the door. John admired how despite being attired in grubby janitorial garb, he remained controlled and poised. “We don’t have much time and we need…” Sherlock’s spine straightened, eyes trained on the opposite wall of plexiglass before him. “It’s inside there,” Sherlock pointed, “sealed away. Not surprising, but most unfortunate.”

“What?” John said, stepping inside next to Sherlock to get a better look. “We can’t get in?”

“It’s a DNA scanner,” she said, crossing the room to the door of the sealed lab. John noticed the scanner pan that jutted out of the wall next to the door. Miss Adler’s hand hovered over the scanner’s pad. “I was hoping you had a way in, but you seem as surprised at this as I am ,” she said. Without touching her hand to it, the scanner lit up in anticipation--her painted nails danced above, but she withdrew her hand before making contact. “The hand pads are programmed  to work for only those technicians cleared to work here, so it’s inaccessible to us.”

John looked closely at the lab setup. The lab door next to the scanner where Irene stood lead to a small middle containment chamber that was sealed off from the main lab that they needed to get into. In that small-middle chamber, protective gear and some sort of elaborate decontamination capsule resided. John had never seen set up as elaborate as this--not even in military hospitals. No doubt, all these precautions were essential for containing whatever virulent samples were within that lab. Frankly, it made John’s skin crawl and itch.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said and stepped up next to Irene, who stepped aside for him, but not without giving his hair a flick. “It’s sophisticated. I anticipated a retinal scanner and was prepared for that, but this-- We need one of the researcher’s physically here with us to gain access.”

“Unless there’s another way around this technology,” John suggested, biting back his annoyance with Miss Adler. Did she have to touch him? He watched Sherlock as he ran his hands around the scanner inspecting the walls. He tapped and put his ear against it, listening as his hands felt the underside of the scanner.

“Such lovely hands,” she said, turning to John and winking. “How does he play you? Like Bach? Those long, elegant fingers perform all sorts of magic, don’t they Doctor Watson? Does he run those soft, supple pads gracefully across your neck the same way he caresses his Stradivarius? I bet that’s a delightful contrast to those calloused fingertips that slide down the strings--how do they feel scratching lazily down _your_ spine?”

Sherlock ignored her and stepped back, his brow pinched in concentration. John took Sherlock’s lead and tried his best to ignore her although he couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed _and_ turned on at the same time.

Sherlock eyes searched the walls and ceiling.

“Why wouldn’t Mycroft tell us this?” John said, taking a step closer. “He had to know that we’d run up against this since he had access to all the cameras and could bloody see everything.”

“Why indeed?” Sherlock said, turning smoothly to John and stepping into his space. Even over the stench of Sherlock’s uniform, John got a whiff of his Rive Gauche and a hint of tobacco. John supposed he could light into Sherlock about the tobacco, but now was not the time.

“That means we can’t take a sample out of here,” John said flatly.

“John, as usual, you are blatantly incorrect,” Sherlock said, turning back to the plexiglass wall. “I no longer need your assistance. You and Miss Adler will clear the room and leave the premises. _Now would be good_.”

John took a deep breath and held it. He’d half expected something like this.

“Sherlock, no. Whatever you are planning, you’re not doing it alone.” A swift knot of anxiety tightened in John’s chest as he watched Sherlock’s eyes light on the metal stool before them.

“The room is sealed,” John whispered. “You would have to break the seal and risk contaminating yourself.”

“Both of you, out of here,” Sherlock ordered. “We have less than ten minutes before the cameras come back online.”

John felt a sense of panic wash over him. Sherlock meant to expose himself and _become_ the sample: one deadly-contagious allergen of a consulting detective. John’s heart began to pound in his ears. Sherlock would have to be quarantined--alone, indefinitely. John rubbed his hands over his face and swore. He had to stop this.

John pulled out his cell to call Mycroft. “I won’t let you do this-- _He_ won’t let you do this.”

Sherlock needed to stop trying to play martyr. He’d done it jumping off the roof. He’d be damned if John was going to let him get away with another fucked-up stunt.

“No need. Mycroft is already outside; he knows what I intend do. In fact, I’m sure he’s counting on it. Most likely he has a hazmat crew at the ready.”

“No, there has to be some other way. You can’t do this.” John didn’t like pleading, but if he had to do it to get Sherlock’s attention, he’d do it. All this emotional upheaval had him on edge: Mary’s sudden labor, Mary spirited away, daughter born at some unknown location. And he didn’t know how serious Mary’s condition really was--John didn’t trust Mycroft.

Now this. Another reason not to trust Mycroft.

“As I said, time isn’t on our side, and this may be the only opportunity to stop the progression of this allergen. Smith will move all this,” Sherlock said, dramatically swept his arms to the sealed lab. “Everything. The whole operation. We’d lose precious time locating him. More lives lost. We have to find out now what’s causing this allergen’s virulence. We must know how to stop it! Now, John, you of all people know the cost if I do not succeed.”

“ _We_ Sherlock,” John said. “If _we_ do not succeed.”

Irene cleared her throat and John and Sherlock’s eyes turned toward her. “I’m sure you two won’t mind if you leave me out of this,” she said.

“John go with her. You haven’t much time left.” Sherlock picked up the metal stool as he walked up to the glass, then set it down. “You mustn’t get infected. You won’t be able to go to Mary or the baby.” Sherlock took his keys from his pocket and selecting one, dug it into the plexiglass and scratched a long, deep groove into the pristine surface. “Go.”

  
John was torn yet he hadn’t budged from Sherlock’s side. Irene slipped out without another word. It was for the best. With that Sherlock spun John around, snatching John’s Luger from back of his pilfered work trousers.

John never thought he’d see the day when Sherlock would point a gun in his face, let alone his own gun.

“I don’t believe you just did that!” John said, voice raising. “You _did not_ just do that! Are you barking mad?” John stepped forward, then Sherlock stepped back. “And now I supposed you plan to shoot me unless I leave? Right! You big fucking cock--although it _would_ be a bit ironic if you did.”

Sherlock lowered the gun a bit. “I thought the dramatic gesture might push you over the edge. I could give you a flesh wound, but that might draw undue attention--and you’re too stubborn for it to work. As always when it comes to you, I should have known such tactics would fail. Still, don’t you want to hold your daughter, kiss her forehead? If you stay, who knows if or when you will be able to touch her. One last chance? _John_. Back out now. _Be with her_.” Sherlock was a fine actor, but John knew this was real: Sherlock was truly distressed. This also made what he said very convincing. John reflected that he’d never even gotten to welcome his daughter into the world. He might never be able to do that if he and Sherlock went through with this madness. He could never say goodbye to Mary. What if Mary didn’t make it? His daughter would be orphaned. Despite all that, he couldn’t leave Sherlock.

“No,” John said, holding his hand out and taking the gun back. Leave it to Sherlock to employ sentiment as a last persuasive resort. He guessed if Sherlock was to become a pariah, at least he should have company. Maybe there would be a happy ending--they’d find a way to reverse or lessen the severity of the antigen. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and swallowed. “I’m in this with you. I guess that makes me as much of a nutter as you.”

John squared his shoulders and nodded and picked up the stool.

“X marks the spot,” Sherlock said as he gouged the same key across the glass again. A large X was now etched in the window. Sherlock stepped back, then John slammed the metal legs of the stool full-force against the carved crosshairs, jarring his shoulder from the impact as the glass fought back. The hollow thud resonated throughout the room. John swung the stool again, throwing his entire body into it, his hands stung from the hit’s vibration, but a crack slowly appeared and snaked its way across the glass wall’s length. With that, John put his remaining energy into the last hit; he slammed the chair into the window with all he had left. It splintered and rained down like confetti--thousands and thousands of glittering small bits.

"I could have just used the gun," Sherlock said with a laugh as he stepped through the broken wall into the lab. He shook the glass from his hair--the light danced off the fragmented glass forming a halo. John stepped back, bent over, hands on his knees. He was breathing hard, half from awe and half from exhaustion.

“Since I’m already contaminated, I’ll take a few of these for good measure,” he said to John,  filling his pockets with selected test tubes and slides.

Putting one last test tube in his pocket, Sherlock walked hurriedly back toward John, glass crunching and sparkling beneath his feet. “I think it’s time we got going--we’ve only minutes.”

They brushed off more glass before furtively making their way to the stairwell. There was no way they were going to crawl around in the elevator shaft with glass in their clothes and hair--they’d be scratched to bits.

As they waited for a guard to pass on the first floor, John smiled and brushed a few chunks of glass from Sherlock tendrils. Sherlock grabbed John’s arms, slammed him against the wall, and kissed him hard on the lips.

“That was...good,” John said, a bit breathlessly.

They kept themselves plastered against the walls and inched their way down to the back first floor hallway on the way out of the building with no added interference, but John was still glad he had his Luger safely tucked in the back of trousers.

Sherlock nodded to John. “The cameras should be coming on about...now,” he whispered.

They walked out the back maintenance doors like they belonged there.

They weren’t more than fifteen steps from said doors when the hazmat team surrounded John and Sherlock. The men herded them off into a waiting, black minivan. Surrounded by men in blue space suits with creepy technology and only a cold, hard, metal bench to sit on, John took stock of the situation. He didn’t feel good. Not good at all. As the van pulled away from the curb, a stark, cold desperation washed over him. The inside of the van was stripped. He felt just like the inside of the van: Factory bare.

John banged his head against the black van wall and squeezed his eyes tight. He replayed Sherlock’s earlier words in his head. It may be some time before he will be able to touch or even see Mary and his newborn daughter.

In that moment of desperate pain, John felt it--Sherlock’s hand on his. John sighed and turned his head toward Sherlock, then slowly opened his eyes. Sherlock winked at him. He had a plan.

\--------------------

“Hey, you can’t take my gun!” John said as he watched his Lunger drop into a ziplock bag.

“I’m afraid it’s contaminated. Please remove your clothes. We need to bag them as well,” one of the men in hazmat suits said.

”Gladly,” Sherlock said. “These clothes absolutely stink!”

Sherlock unceremoniously emptied his pockets into various bags, then stripped. John huffed out a sigh and bit his lip. Sherlock had no shame.

“You there,” Sherlock said, pointing to one of the men in blue alien-like gear. “You specialize in transmittable diseases, are we carriers? If we aren’t and what we have is fatal, how long do you think we have to live? If I must be naked and die, I’d like to have a shag.”

“Well that’s an absolutely cracking idea,” John chimed in, voice dripping with sarcasm as he took off his shirt. “Do you even know what that means?”

“Of course I do, John.”

“Are you trying to be funny? No. Of course not. A shag! With an audience! No. Just. No. And when did you ever hear that word used?”

“You made me watch that awful spy movie. Not 007, that ridiculous one,” Sherlock said. “And when the end of the world happens, that’s what they _always shag_.”

“ _Austin Powers_. I’m surprised you didn’t delete it,” John said.

“I am completely serious. And if you aren’t amenable, one last snog will suffice.”

“Why, why, why would I ever want to snog someone who tastes like the bottom of an ashtray?” John barked back.

“You didn’t mind earlier! Although, I didn’t use tongue. And it was only one cigarette!” Sherlock sputtered. “Under the circumstances, I hardly think that one cigarette would kill me. It was purely circumstantial: I needed to think when we were at Barts. I said I’d kill for a cigarette, an orderly heard me and offered one of his. No need to be ungrateful. So, I smoked it. ”

“As entertaining as this all is,” said an all too familiar voice piped in over a speaker, “for the well being of all those around you, I think you should refrain from any extracurricular activities that might exert you. While Sherlock, you may be a bit of an exhibitionist, the good doctor is not. It’s entirely too much _information_ , and I think those men in the room with you would agree.” John heard a few grunts from the men in blue space suits. “And becoming ‘over-stimulated’ may hasten the onset. As a precaution, it may be necessary to separate you for a time.”

“What? Why? No! Mycroft!” John said. “It’s bad enough I have to be separated from Mary and my daughter!”

“Why, indeed?” Mycroft’s voice echoed off the walls. “I think for your safety, doctor, as well as my dear brother’s, we should separate you.”

“This is a bunch of tripe if you ask me,” John said under his breath. Sherlock frowned but remained quiet.

“I’m not asking,” Mycroft directed.

“Where are we going? Can you at least tell us that?” John asked.

“The location is of no consequence. Know that you won’t be far from Mary and your daughter.”

“Not that I’ll be able to go anywhere near them…” John said under his breath. Sherlock heard him and turned to John.

“If she’s nursing, the baby would be protected by its mother’s antibodies,” Sherlock said.

“How would you know that? That’s not information you’d know or at least if you did, you’d delete it immediately.” It was difficult becoming increasing more difficult to carry on a conversation with Sherlock sitting there all flushed with those cheekbones and his bits all exposed.

“John, I’m not always the insensitive cock you think I am. You must know that you and Mary becoming parents has become a focal point in my life. I’ve extensively researched childbirth and rearing over the last months. Did you know there are so many contradictory theories on letting a baby cry itself to sleep? It’s actually quite fascinating.”

John shook his head and finished removing the rest of his clothes. “Well, I’m not taking any chances with my daughter’s life.”

“I was just trying to comfort you John. I thought that was what I’m supposed to do in a situation such as this.” John looked over at Sherlock, whose face grimaced in complete disgust as he was handed a blue disposable jumpsuit from one of the men. John took one too and began putting it on while Sherlock half stood up, crouched in the van, held it up in front of himself with a frown that could have frozen ale.

“I am _not_ putting this on,” he said.

“Then go naked, you berk,” John said with a warm smile.

“I suppose this is an improvement from our last attire,” he said defeatedly and put one of his long legs inside the jumpsuit.

After dressing, he sat next to John on the bench, legs touching.

  
“You’ll see her,” Sherlock said. “I’ll make certain of that.” He squeezed John’s shoulder.


	11. I Know the Bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lieutenant Wolf for the incredible beta and suggestions. Also thanks to everyone in this wonderful, supportive fandom.
> 
> This chapter takes John and Sherlock through a dark place. Be warned. 
> 
> Warning: Canonical Character death in this chapter (you knew it had to be coming).

\------------------------

As far as John was concerned, the remote institution they were shepherded into looked too much like an asylum from a bad B film--and he told Sherlock as much--although Sherlock hadn’t the slightest idea what B film was. The barred windows were narrow and uniform like so many soldiers, and the upkeep of the grounds were sadly neglected. Unmanicured shrubs and old dead oak trees and dried bracken lined the drive. The only healthy sign of life, John noted, were the vines that climbed and devoured the brick walls of the building. When the institutional doors opened and heralded them inside, the transformation was jarring. Stark, stripped and sterile seamless white walls comprised the completely controlled environment. Hard marble floors echoed beneath their feet. Doors divided the clinically aseptic units. John had commented on the outright creepiness of the institution, much to Sherlock's amusement, which led to certain snide remarks regarding Mycroft's preferences.

Everything got creepier when John demanded to know what was happening with Mary and his child. Only silence, and even Sherlock’s caustic inquiries were met with vacant stares. They’d been herded into an enormous decontamination room with enough impressive alien-looking equipment in it to sterilize an army. John wondered if it was made for just that purpose. When the air locked-door whistled and sealed fast behind them, John jumped through, bumping into Sherlock. Like the Great and Powerful Wizard, a disembodied voice commanded them to strip down and step into a human car wash. The experience was unsettling. They stepped out rubbed pink and raw and smelling like antiseptic. Any other time, John would have loved to ogle Sherlock naked from head to toe, but he was too tired and too worried to give a damn. Hundreds of blue hazmat suits folded neatly on shelves awaited the invisible army. John and Sherlock took one each and had just finished putting them on when the door opened and six men in similar hazmat suits poured through.

Then they were separated, and John felt the floor fall out beneath him.

Sherlock’s deep voice boomed in objection through the doorway before he disappeared the way they’d came in. The door sealed and silenced him. From all the moments he’d wished he could cut off Sherlock mid-rant, now was not one of them. He was surrounded with people who didn’t speak or wouldn’t, and the sterile room was quieter than the Diogenes Club. John was led  through the door opposite where Sherlock had disappeared, then into the next room. John observed the room; it looked much the same as all the others except this room was an equipped makeshift lab with test tubes and centrifuges and bright lights.

John reluctantly laid down on the examination table as instructed and bit down a laugh at the irony of the role reversal. The tech sneered at him and snapped the rubber tube around his arm, then flicked John’s wrist to get his veins to pop. The sniveling asshat ended up with enough blood to run a hundred tests.

“Where did you take Sherlock? May I at least get my mobile back?” John asked him, but he made sure everyone in the room heard his question. Only one young man looked directly at him when he’d spoken, but seconds ticked and no one replied. “I need to speak with  Mycroft Holmes, please.” He clenched his fists in frustration. He thought about asking for his gun back too, but that might not be wise considering the first thing he’d do with it would be to hold it to one of these zombies heads and demand that they take him to Mary.

John repeated himself, except this time the soldier in him commanded _and_ he demanded not requested. “I will speak to Mycroft Holmes. Either get him or give me my cell. _Now._ ”

“If you don’t calm yourself, we’ll have to sedate you,” said the tech who’d drawn his blood.

“Try it, and I wrap that fucking rubber tubing around your scrawny neck,” John shot back.

His anger at Mycroft, at the system, at everyone of these “automatons” who attended him, made him want to hit something. Hard. Preferably the asshat who just threatened to sedate him. In true form, the coward just scampered away after John barked at him. John guessed no guts went right along with no bedside manner.

John sat up and closed his eyes to calm himself. No need to get worked up over this. Even if the room was cold and inhospitable and the techs in the white room treated him like some insect to squash, there was one person in this room who was listening. The shortest tech who kept peaking at John over his shoulder--he looked as if he cared. John opened his eyes and caught that tech’s attention again. Success! He stepped over closer to John.

“Sorry, Dr. Watson for the way you’ve been treated,” said the young man, obviously Welsh.

“Hey, mate, do you think you could get me my cell?” John asked.

“I will check for clearance on your request.”

“Yes, please check. And I’d appreciate it if you found out how my wife and daughter are doing while you’re at it,” John asked him, thankful that someone was helping. John didn’t miss any of the reprimanding looks that rained down on the young man for daring to talk to him. “I don’t know what’s so bloody difficult about giving me a straight answer.”

“We were told to keep our contact with you and Mr. Holmes to the minimum,” the young man explained in a hushed voice. “But I must say that it’s an honor to meet you. I’ve followed your blog for years.”

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Wilson, Charles Wilson.”

“Thank you, Charles Wilson.”

With the last words, Wilson left the room for what John hoped were answers.

He didn’t wait long. John saw him returning through the glass of the containment doors. He came in holding a ziplock bag with his mobile phone in it. The young man handed John the bag with a nod and left again before John could ask him about Mary.

John could see already that Sherlock was messaging him.

_Something is missing. SH_

John pulled his mobile phone from the bag.

 _Care to elaborate?_ John messaged back.

_One essential component. It didn’t come to me until now. SH_

_What?_

_Spores, John, Spores. SH_

_Allelopathic plants. You mentioned the bracken when we came into this building. I was sitting here, then it came to me. SH_

_Ferns? You mean ferns are the allergen?_

_No, allelopathic properties are used to transmit it. The biological phenomenons remain long after the plant that leaches them has died. It’s perfect. SH_

Since John was preoccupied with other more pressing thoughts, telling Sherlock that it was a bit not good to say that deadly spores were “perfect” seemed a waste of time.

_Has Mycroft contacted you. What about Mary and the baby?_

_He hasn’t answered my texts. SH_

_I’m calling him right now then._

But Mycroft didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t answer. Wilson, however, was coming back into the room. As John watched him come in, he knew.  Sherlock was right. Something was amiss, but not what he’d suggested. John tasted the bile in the back of his throat. He’d seen that stance so many times during the war. The way Wilson wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. He knew.

_John? SH_

_John? SH_

“What’s happened?” John said flatly.

“I don’t know how to tell you this Dr. Watson,” he stammered.

“Just tell me.”

“Your wife. She’s dead…”

Blood roared in his ears. The world spun. He was hyperventilating or having a heart attack or maybe both, then the world went hollow.

“Take me to her, _now_.”

Wilson nodded and led the way.

\---------------------

As soon as John stopped texting Sherlock back, he knew.

He’d failed.

He swore to protect them, and he didn’t.

He shoved his fist in his mouth and bit down hard on his hand. The sharp stab of pain served as a temporary distraction. It was unbearable to imagine the pain John must be going through. He had to get to John immediately.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and called Mycroft. Relief washed over him when Mycroft picked up. There was no hello, no amenities, only Mycroft’s starched words. “I’m sorry, dear brother. Despite Herculean efforts, we could not save Mary. Someone is taking your doctor to her as we speak. Someone will be there for you momentarily.”

Sherlock realized only then that his face was wet.

“His daughter?” Sherlock choked out.

“She will be fine. As you know, until we are certain that either of you can not pass this allergen or that you are not in danger--”

“ _Yes, yes, yes,_ no contact. But John should be able to see his daughter. He needs to see her.”

“That is being arranged.” Mycroft hesitated. “There is something else you should know... Mary’s death was not accidental. It was caused by a lethal combination of blood thinner and labor inducing drugs.”

His hard drive recycled the words over and over: This was all wrong. This shouldn’t have happened. He should have prevented this. Why _hadn’t_ he prevented this? He knew it was illogical for him to believe that he could control Mary’s condition, but he should have known, should have deduced the danger. How had they gotten to her? There must have been some sign, some twinge overlooked, some scrap of data, some symptom missed. Something to prevent all this.

 _All this_.

Sherlock hung up on Mycroft and bowed his head. What will he say to John? What could he say? _I’m sorry_ ? ‘I’m sorry’ seemed like such empty words. Angry. Yes, John _should_ be angry. Angry at him for not keeping his promise. There should be no retribution for his failure. Sherlock felt it deep down in his core--in his heart that he thought for so long never existed. He almost wished it never existed now. He wouldn’t feel this pain, this agony. And if _he_ felt this way, how would a man like John feel? A man with the size of a heart so grand and gracious that his boundless compassion might break him to pieces? Sherlock was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice that a man had entered to lead him to John and Mary until he noticed the feet before him.

Sherlock stared at the feet for some moments. He was so unsure. When had he become so unsure? He needed to be sure. He needed so much. The problem remained that he knew he _needed_ to be with John, but not _how_ to be with John.

\------------------------

The sheets, just sheets. She looked so cold. He wanted to cover her with warm blankets. His hand rested on the plexiglass barrier as if to reach out and touch her. John had been so angry with her the last time they’d spoken. He wondered if her last thoughts had been of his anger. He hoped to god not.

His mobile vibrated. It was only habit that made him reach with his other hand into the blue hazmat pocket and then to look at the screen. 

_I’m here. SH_

John lifted his head and looked through the glass of the door. He felt a kind of relief he never knew existed. His hand slipped from the glass as Sherlock stepped through the doorway. No one followed his friend. The hiss of the door sealed them together. Sherlock stood there, so unsure. He was looking from John’s face to Mary behind him.

“I failed you. I failed all of you.” His voice shook.

And John wanted to shake his head no in return. He wanted to say, _No, Sherlock, you didn’t fail us._ But there was a part of him that agreed with Sherlock. A part that blamed him. It was unreasonable, irrational, but there nonetheless. He bit back the rage that was suddenly boiled inside him. The rage at Sherlock, at Mary, at the world. He wanted to break something, but there was nothing but Sherlock standing before him. He could easily let the anger fill him, overtake him, but instead, he swallowed it down, tucked it back.

“ _John._ ” Sherlock stepped slowly, cautiously toward him, and as he came closer, John saw the red in his eyes and the dried tears on his cheeks. His own face was unstained. His eyes dry. All at once he felt like he was collapsing into himself. Sherlock embraced him. While John did not embrace him back, he welcomed those arms, however awkward. Arms that warmed him against Sherlock’s chest. Arms that caressed the back of his neck. It seemed so unfair that he felt warm right now when Mary was so cold. He left his own arms stiff and at his sides. Like Mary’s. So cold. He wasn’t sure when the tears began or how, but they came in a shower with broken sobs.

“John. If you like, I’ll take you to see your daughter.”

“”Rosamund. We were going to name her Rosamund.”

“And you still shall. Come, John.”

\-------------------------

He helped John through the halls with the kind tech leading the way. John said his name was Wilson. It was good someone sane was here. The anger, the fear, the sorrow John expressed in untold waves washed over Sherlock and cascaded into his own soul. If he ever had a shred of doubt that he loved John Watson, that doubt no longer existed. He loved this brave, kind man with every cell in his body, and he would do anything to keep John and his Rosamund safe. Sherlock had failed once. He would not fail again. But now was not the time to tell him how his Mary died. John needed some hope first. He needed to see his daughter whole and well.

At last the makeshift nursery was before them. Behind the glass, a nurse picked up John’s pink-swaddled newborn daughter.

“I wish I could hold her,” John whispered, his eyes filled with tears.

“You will. You will hold her soon, John.” Sherlock stepped closer, right arm bumping John’s shoulder. 

Sherlock choked back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.  He _needed_ to be strong for John. He _would_ be strong for John. They would get out of this. The spores were the answer. Now all he needed to do was stop Culverton Smith’s operation and find all those who were spreading the allergen. For that, Mycroft’s assistance would be needed along with a way to negate the allelopathic properties, the biological phenomenons. Sherlock needed to think, to research. Emotion made this so difficult.

“As much as I think Sherlock is a smashing name, I think her middle name should be Mary,” Sherlock said. “Rosamund Mary Watson.”

He had thought some levity might help--instead all he’d done was make John cry harder. Sherlock turned to him and held him again, but made certain they both could still see his daughter. It was most comforting to have John like this in his arms. It also made him afraid, because he needed to tell John how Mary died, and when he did, he was worried how John would react.

“What will you call her then?” Sherlock asked. “For short?”

“Rosie. We’ll call her Rosie.”

“A most fitting nickname,” Sherlock said.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“There’s something else I need to tell you. About Mary.”


	12. I Must Shriek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to unravel the mystery and begins to understand what he and Watson must do. 
> 
> Thank you to all who are following, and to Lieutenant Wolf for the spot-on beta work.

He counted his life in befores and afters. Before John, Sherlock had told countless people about the death of loved ones. Before John, he conveyed the circumstances with callous disregard. After John, he learned how to extend kindness, compassion and empathy when he had to break the loss or give details about a death to loved ones. He cringed now at how crass and insensitive he’d delivered these messages and at the undue distress he’d caused. All before John. After, Sherlock knew the precise look of concern needed to assume sentiment: he squared his shoulders, pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. He knew how to project his deep, resonant voice and convey his apologies for their loss in rich tones of surrogate sincerity. He even imitated John’s kind touch and mindful regard for another’s anecdotes, however tedious. Why? Because it mattered to John. And there were times when Sherlock swore he felt empathy and sorrow for those he informed, but those moments paled in comparison to what he felt now. Before John, he never knew better. Before John, he’d never let himself feel.

Now, as he looked deep into John’s sad, blue eyes and searched them, he knew telling his best friend that Mary’s end wasn’t accidental would devastate more than just John. He would suffer it to his very soul. That Sherlock feared for John’s sanity and life, was too, too real. He never knew what it was, as John called it, “to walk in another’s shoes.”

So it was with a deep breath and not without some trepidation that Sherlock waited.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, putting his hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze to comfort himself as much as John, “but Mary’s death was not some medical accident. It was...orchestrated.”

“What do you mean? You’re telling me it was intentional?” The look in John’s eyes made Sherlock’s heart break.

“Yes.” Sherlock blinked, but never looked away from his best friend and always partner. He was truly grateful for Rosie in that moment. Despite all, Sherlock knew that no matter how distraught, John would never leave his daughter orphaned.

“How?” John bit his lip.

“Birth was prematurely induced along with some sort of radical blood thinner. Mycroft wasn’t sure how it was introduced.”

“But you know...” John said slowly and his eyes wavered away from Sherlock’s and watched his daughter asleep in the sterile bassinet. He appeared to Sherlock to be deep in some memory, most likely awakening some cherished, bittersweet moment with Mary.

“Yes. Her prenatal vitamins and iron...she ordered them online--I asked Mycroft to verify. She was also vomiting--unusual for late in a pregnancy--I knew you were concerned and thought...”

“...I thought maybe it was those some flu bug,” John cut in, “then later, after our visit from Smith, I thought it had something to do with those damned forget-me-nots he sent us.” John covered his face with his hands, then looked up at Sherlock. “Was it Culverton Smith or was it someone else from her past?”

“I suspect both--the same, actually. John, I’m sorry...” Although he kept a bit of space between them as he watched John holding his pain close, he longed to reach out and pull John to him. There was no way to obliterate his misery, but Sherlock could offer solace--that’s what John would do for him.

“Our faucet dripped. I never fixed it. Mary never called the repairman.” John stared straight ahead and stepped closer to the plexiglass that separated him from his daughter.

“John?” Sherlock’s concern mounted.

John took a deep, ragged breath and looked over at Sherlock, fighting the tears. “What happened to our life? One day we’re happy, expecting for our first child, taking walks, picking out high chairs,” he said, placing a hand on the glass. “Next I’m looking at Mary’s body on a slab and my daughter behind this--this sheet of plexiglass!” John smacked the glass with his open palm and looked directly at Sherlock. “Damn it all to hell! Tell me what you mean by ‘ _the same_ .’ What _do_ you suspect?”

Sherlock drew a deep breath. He felt somewhat relieved that John was angry. “That Culverton Smith is Mary’s brother.” Sherlock paused. “I had Mycroft check her story about her family and found she had another brother who didn’t perish in that fire. His name was Culverton. Not a particularly common name. It seemed that the two were caught in some sort of stand off--it’s possible that Moriarty kept him in check or she held something--some information over him. Irene became tied to this, again through Moriarty.”

Sherlock felt his cell go off. It was Mycroft.

“Do I even want to know this?” John directed the question more to himself than to Sherlock. “Bloody hell. I need to know it. What was the information? --you obviously have it all worked out.”

Sherlock swallowed. John was not going to like his answer. “The antidote. They had the antidote--at least how to manufacture it, making all of Smith’s work useless. But the antidote became useless. Smith found a way to alter the antigen or it mutate some how. That’s why Miss Adler was at Techwood--she needed new insurance, a new antidote.”

“You’re telling me that Mary and that _woman_ could save lives--but instead chose to save themselves!” Sherlock stood silent, eyes never leaving John. “Well, at least we have it now,” John said, finally. “We got it ourselves from the database.”

Sherlock decided he might as well tell him the rest of what he’d deduced and what Mycroft had just confirmed. “John. We didn’t get it. She’d deleted all related files and folder from database before we got there--what we retrieved didn’t contain the necessary components.”

If John was angry before, now he was livid. He shook with anger, knuckles white and jaw clenched. Sherlock knew John needed to hit something. First choice was himself. He could say something arrogant or hurtful or distracting, giving John a focus for that anger. If he didn’t, John would burn himself up. So he said the first outrageous thing that came to his head.

“I took your dog tags and corroded them with lactic acid.”

“What?” John said, shaking his head. “Are you daft! What are you on about? Dogtags?! Sherlock, you did _not_ corrode my dog tags! You took them out of my gun box and put them inside that fancy box of yours you’d like to think I don’t know about--the one you hide under the floorboard beneath your dresser…”

“You found my box! But…” he stopped before he could continue.

“You’re not the only one who snoops in other people’s rooms,” John said, crossing his arms.

Sherlock’s face felt hot. That meant John knew about his hidden stash and never flushed it! But that was a discussion best left for another time.

“You stopped wearing your tags. It was because Mary asked you to,” Sherlock deduced.

“Yes, she said it was time to put that part of my past behind me. She said a lot of things that didn’t matter.” John raised his head and scanned over Sherlock from head to toe. He squinted his eyes and pursed his lips. “I know exactly what you were doing...trying to distract me. And for a genius, you know shite about distracting.”

“It worked.  And by the way, I may not have destroyed your dog tags, but I am sorry to report that I, however, corroded part of your coin collection. Most interesting data. I’ll have to share it with you sometime when we have more time.”

“I wondered what happened to them,” John said, John put his hand on the glass and smiled sadly. John turned and eyed Sherlock closely. “You don’t look so good.”

“Must be the apparel,” Sherlock returned, looking down at the blue hazmat suit. “You don’t look so dapper either. It does do something for your eyes though. Brings out the blue. Although the fit leaves much to be desired. I must say that I do miss that awful jumper.”

John shook his head, then looked back at Rosie. “She looks beautiful though, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, beautiful, John. How could any daughter of yours not be beautiful?”

“You’re getting pretty good at compliments.”

“I’ve always been good at compliments; it’s just that I’ve never meant them until I met you.”

“Being honest now too. That’s a stretch.”

“I’d do anything--I’m sorry I failed you, I’m sorry--I wanted to save her. For you. For your daughter.”

“Stop it, you bloody arse. You didn’t fail. I did. I should have saved her. I’m a doctor--I should have done something when I suspected.”

“You...there was no way to know.”

“There’s something you could do. Talk to her--convince Miss Adler. She has a soft spot for you. Get her to hand over the what she has.”

“It would be only temporary,” Sherlock said, “but yes, I’ll get her to give us a copy. More pressing, I need to stop Smith--but I believe he’ll come to us.” Sherlock read another message from Mycroft.

“We. We need to stop Smith. And we need to get out of here first.”

“I’m waiting for Mycroft to clear us. He believes we managed to get out without contamination.”

“That’s good news, at least. Guess, Smith’s promise to turned those we loved against us hasn’t worked,” John said.  “I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. None if this is your fault, so don’t go blaming yourself any more.”

“I fear I can’t help but blame myself. You are always near me, and being near, draw all sorts of peril. It’s my fault that I crave danger.”

“Well, I can’t say that I don’t look for it too. But after all that we’ve been through, he can’t turn me against you.”

The depth of John’s feelings poured out in those words and warmed Sherlock as he looked to his friend. Even as he recalled Smith’s words to them in the cab felt…

“John! You are brilliant!” Sherlock said, hugging him a bit too tight. "And you are _wrong_!” he said, releasing him. “Smith’s exact words were: ‘I promise to take what each love most in this world and turn it against you.’”

“Yeah, I remember that. Hard to forget.”

“How could I not see it before? Smith promised us that he would take _what_ we loved most in this world and turn _it_ against us. He’s wasn’t referring to people,” he said, waving between them. “He was referring to things. And what things do we hold most dear?! Think!”

John didn’t even hesitate. “The work!”

“Precisely! Or our work--my deductions, your medicine. He’s using our prior knowledge against us--leading us to false conclusions.”

Sherlock began pacing back and forth now. “Do you remember that other odd comment on your blog the same day that Miss Adler left the message about Mary’s past?”

“About the ‘demon vines’ all over London that come to life and kill those who walk by?” John said. “Yeah, I remember.”

“It wasn’t some paranoid schizophrenic. It was Smith taunting us…Smith--he loves riddles.”

“Or he knows you like them, and it’s a way to get your attention. Just like some other sicko psychopath we knew,” John added.

“I thank you for helping me see--I didn’t put it together until you mentioned the ferns. Allelopathic plants. Not ferns, vines. It’s not beneath our feet, it’s climbing through our gardens, up our fences, our walls.”

Sherlock stood in front of John, waiting for Sherlock to ask, to deduce. He needed the distraction as much as John.

“I get it. That’s fine. It’s working. God, it’s working you crazy git. Tell me all you know, Sherlock. Make me marvel at your brilliance.”

“Understood. This happens with invasive plants,” Sherlock said, eyes afire, talking as artfully with his hands as with his rich voice. “These plants give off the toxic allelopathic biochemicals that influence the growth and reproduction of other organisms--plants and in this case, on people--although that’s not the way it works in nature. Its toxic properties are transferred to some ‘people’ who come in contact to it--such as Mrs. Stevens--and carry this toxin, causing those who come in close contact to said person to become hypersensitive to that toxin. It’s probable that biochemicals weren’t recognized as toxins in carriers such as Miss Stevens since these occur naturally. As for those affected, like any allergen, repeated, prolonged contact makes one more sensitized to the allergen, which is exactly what happened in the case of Miss Steven’s brother, resulting in death by anaphylactic shock.”

“The vines...our homes...” John said. “We really are facing killer plants if this is the case.”

“As I speak, I suspect grape vines are being uprooted and soil removed all over the known affected areas in London per Mycroft's instructions.”

“Smith also said the road to eternal life is death, Sherlock. It seemed a bit crazy at the time, but now I think it was just a part of his damnable riddle.”

“Yes, and until now I thought it was about science. Simple. The conservation of energy, but now...”

“Yes, he’s turning our knowledge against us. He said it wasn’t a religious statement. But what if it’s both. I was reading recently about scientific studies regarding reincarnation…”

“I read it too since you left it open on the end table,” Sherlock said. “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

“What else then?” John asked, turning to him concern suddenly written across his brow. “You don’t look so good, Sherlock.”

“Either do you.”

“She looks beautiful though, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, beautiful, John. Rosie is beautiful.”

“You need to save her, save us all. You need to convince Miss Adler to hand over the cure.”

“It would be only temporary,” Sherlock said, “but yes, I’ll speak to her. More pressing, I need to get to Smith--but I believe the key to finding him is Miss Stevens. It just so happens that she’d locked away here.”

“We need to get to Smith.”

On cue, Sherlock’s cell vibrated and Wilson, the helpful tech appeared at the door.

“Ah, it seems you are both ‘all cleared’ to leave,” Wilson said, “but before you do, I believe there is a little lady you’d like to meet.” Wilson then opened the door that separated father and daughter and led them through.

John picked her up and reverently held her close, touching her face with his fingers. Sherlock lingered behind John, peeking over his shoulder. “She has your eyes and nose,” Sherlock said.

“And Mary’s chin,” John added, as the tears the he’d held back early slipped down his cheeks.

“He’s wrong, John,” Sherlock said. “Smith is wrong. The road to eternal life is not death, it’s birth.”

John got to feed and change his daughter, and although usually Sherlock would avoid such things, he found for the first time he was amazed by them.

“Do you want to hold her?” John asked. Sherlock nodded tentatively and held out his arms.

For all the times he’d scoffed and chided others for such sentiments, he now regretted them. He had never seen a child as beautiful or as perfect. Of course. Love at first sight _is_ possible. And he should know; it’s happened to him twice. 

“Your cell is going off,” John said.

“It’s Mycroft,” Sherlock said, gently placing Rosie back into John’s arms. He answered the cell and stepped away to talk to Mycroft. No need to raise his voice and disturb little Rosie. He watched John kiss Rosie and rock her in his arms.

“They are waiting for us,” Sherlock said. “You should stay here--take care of her.”

“No, Sherlock. We’ll go together.”

His first instinct was to object, but he had that stubborn, military stiff lip aimed directly at Sherlock. “Very well,” he said. “Mycroft is waiting.”

With that John reluctantly placed his daughter into the bassinet, kissed her forehead and smiled sadly down at her. Sherlock stepped near, wrapped his arm around his waist and awkwardly hugged him.

Sherlock bent down and placed a tender kiss on Rosie’s cheek.  


	13. The Slow Faults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long stretch of time between the last chapter and now. You may have noticed that I have the number of chapters up at 17. That means The Sound of Poisons is now complete! I am really excited to be posting the chapters every Monday until the finish! 
> 
> Also, right now I'm losing my Beta for a while, Lieutenant Wolf-- Would anyone want to beta the upcoming chapters?

As John hobbled his way up to the black sedan, he knew it wouldn’t take Mycroft’s uncanny divinations to pick up on the doctor’s dolor turn since even John would have mistaken himself for an elderly man. His leg and shoulder ached, but it was his soul had turned the clock forward most. He took some comfort that he was finally dressed in his own clothes and out of that sterile hazmat suit. His welcoming jacket pockets warmed his hands and stilled the trembling. He took one long, last look back and closed his eyes as he stepped into the sedan.

He hated leaving Sherlock alone to speak to Miss Stevens, but Mycroft assured him that Sherlock wouldn’t be long--and Sherlock had insisted. John hated being there, but he hated leaving Rosie and Mary more.

He reluctantly sat down next to Mycroft, who moved his umbrella aside to accommodate him. Sometimes John believed Mycroft cared more for that ruddy umbrella than his own flesh and blood. At first glance, he looked his usual everything-in-its-place anal-retentive self. John shut the door with a sense of finality and rested his chin on his chest with a shaky breath before acknowledging Mycroft. But he had no choice, really. A harder study of Mycroft’s face revealed a few new fine lines around his mouth and eyes. This had aged him too--lord knows this was hard, so hard for John. What if he had the world on his shoulders too? He kept silent and waited for Mycroft to speak. Generally, it was best to let Mycroft start anyway.

“It may seem like a cold place to keep your daughter,” Mycroft said, leaning back in the seat, “but it is by far one of the safest--and that, Doctor Watson, is what you want most.” While John nodded absently in agreement, he choked back a laugh. Safe? What he wanted was his wife safe. He wanted her back and laughing at his silly jokes and angry with him for staying out all hours chasing Sherlock through the streets of London. He wanted normal again--at least what passed for normal in his world. The emptiness before was replaced with opposing emotions that rolled like a catamaran riding on mountainous waves of grief and hysteria. He was so caught up in its horrific rhythms that he jumped in surprise when Sherlock opened the sedan’s door--hIs startled eyes relieved to see his Sherlock back, posh and perfectly attired.

Familiar.

He needed familiar desperately. Sherlock untangled himself between them as if to keep a barrier, a safety-zone, between John and Mycroft. He never used to think of Sherlock as a protector. Odd since he’d been each other’s defender since the day they’d met--sometimes Sherlock’s buffer and safeguards were for shit, but as a military man, John understood the difference between armor and camouflage. Sometime smoke and mirrors were all they had besides each other.

Mycroft nodded to the driver and John fixed his eyes on the countryside as it slipped past the tinted window. He was sure Mycroft had read him as well, if not better than, Sherlock. They saw it all. His frailty, his hopelessness, his utter agony. His guilt. And he was guilty. Guilty for laughing not crying. Guilty for living not dying.

That guilt became a blind panic that forced him to shout for the driver to stop. He was leaving them there--Mary alone and cold and his Rosie without a mother or father.

“We can go back,” Sherlock said, reaching for his hand. John jerked his away, and he couldn’t miss the flash of hurt on Sherlock’s face.

“No,” John said, biting his lip. “It’s just, I feel like I’m deserting them.”

“I’m very sorry, Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft, and he actually sounded sincere. “But you will serve them best by stopping Smith.”

It was like everyone he ever lost was haunting him. Mates bloody on the battlefield, parents long dead, Sherlock’s empty grave. Who was he, anyway? Some side-kick? A bad husband? An unforgiving brother? Nobody to Mycroft, he figured.

“It’s John,” he said, to reassured himself who he was. Who he’d been.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “John. Yes. John Watson.”

Sherlock brushed his hand tentatively again against his--an experiment? As always, Sherlock must know what is John feeling, thinking. It’s part of Sherlock’s nature. He can’t help himself. Ever. This time John let Sherlock rest his hand over his and John grasped it back. While Mycroft pointedly stared at their clasped hands, he thankfully kept his comments about their relationship to himself--instead Mycroft repeated that he was sorry. John decided this might be some sort of major milestone for the man. At least he said it. More than he’d done before. Despite this, Sherlock couldn’t help spouting back.

John found that he didn’t care. Or at least he decided he go with that. Maybe if he said it enough times to himself he’d start to believe it. Whether sincere or not, for a change he decided he could care less what someone like Mycroft thought. The numbness was setting in again, and he welcomed it. He hated his raging emotions. The outside of the institution should look dark and depressing as it shrank into the distance like so many lost memories. Gladly, he couldn’t feel it. While he tried to recall what it looked like when they’d first entered it, he couldn’t recollect it after all that had transpired. He recalled that he’d made observations about the landscape to Sherlock. Funny how what seemed important in retrospect held little importance to him now. He closed his eyes to the outside world and turned down its static, and consequently the brothers’ bickering became a subtle white noise. Death, extinction and anguish bantered about inside the sedan at 40mph.

John longed to suspend time. How did Sherlock separate himself? Was that what it was like in that mind palace of his? Blissful peace? John wished to god that he had a place like Sherlock’s. He was tired, too tired to think, too tired to sleep. He needed a refuge, and the only refuge he had to look forward to was 221B--and that was filled with mixed memories too.

He thought of Mary and Rosie. After all Mary had done, he’d loved her and a part of him loved her still and always would. He wondered what was wrong with him that he still could. He supposed he was shattered long before this. Problem was he kept losing more and more pieces of himself. The more he lost, the easier it was to forget what it was like to be whole.

Rosie was like morning light through a window. He needed her as much as she needed him. Maybe with her in his life he could find the pieces again. Have a reason to go on.

He knew Sherlock and Mycroft were talking--about him, about “the case.” He also knew what they _weren’t_ talking about--what they were dancing around. Mary and Rosie. It seemed what they tried so hard to avoid was all that John could think about. That huge hole in his heart.

Through the white noise, Mycroft’s words slipped through disconnected dreamlike sequences. Mycroft said that despite all they’d sacrificed, his people still didn’t understand how Techwood had managed to make the allergens mutate and remain hypersensitive. John imagined little honey bees transforming into hornets. Then Mycroft droned on how it seemed in essence the “irritant” altered in a form of “self preservation.” Then John envisioned the hornets making a paper hive for protection. The key, Mycroft narrated, was to find out the caused the genetic alterations and to stop them. John’s mind’s eye projected the paper hive bursting into flames with angry hornets swarming round it.

Sherlock, however, suggested through John’s haze, that they take seriously his earlier suggestion that they allow the mutations to progress so that it was no longer had the super-virulent properties, or better, just make the “hosts” uninhabitable. Suddenly a hive appeared in John’s imagination with hornets uselessly converging about the honeycomb.

Then unspeakable was spoken. “We are now certain that Moriarty’s transmission was not from Culverton--rather from Mary,” Mycroft said.

And John’s fantasy disappeared like mist. “What?” John said like he was in a drunken haze. “Why?”

“To get me back and out of harm,” Sherlock explained. “She did it for you. She had no other discernible motivation. She’d seen the result of what losing me had done to you once before; she knew she was the reason that I shot Magnussen, the reason I was being sent away, and she wanted to spare you that loss again. She cared enough for you to keep you from that pain.”

“And _you_ didn’t matter?”

“Of course I don’t matter. You do,” Sherlock said, in a matter of fact tone. “Mary and I both agreed completely on that point.”

John sucked in a huge breath, biting back anger. “ _You matter_. Never say that you don’t again.”

\--------------------------

Upon arriving at Baker Street, John noted that it didn’t surprise Sherlock in the least that Irene Adler was sitting in John’s chair--her usual haughty guise gone. In place of the mysterious and seductive femme fatale, John recognized raw despair in a face he could relate to. The rest of her was just as unrecognizable. Dressed in a paisley house dress and simple pumps, she looked more like Mrs. Hudson. John didn’t miss her usual slinky black dress and thigh-high spike-heeled boots--and the makeup and prosthetics that added 30 years to her appearance made John stupidly satisfied.

“Does he know you’re here?” Sherlock asked, picking up a shaggy mop of grey-hair off the coffee table and eyeing the wig speculatively.

“I came at night, made sure I wasn’t followed--look at me! Do you think I usually go out like this!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

“I’m not part of some trap if that’s what you’re implying--”

“I rather think you _are_ part of a trap--” Sherlock said, watching Irene furiously shaking her head. “It would be unlikely for Smith to miss you entering even this well disguised. He expected this.”

“I had to find out--about Mary, and...” she hesitated and briefly made eye contact with John, but she already knew. “The baby? How is the baby?”

“The baby’s name is Rosamund Mary--after her mother--and _she_ is fine, no thanks to you. And she will stay fine as long as you stay far away,” John added.

Irene blinked as if slapped as she clutched her purse to chest. “Mary and I didn’t always agree or get along, but she was like family.”

“If that was true, you’d probably be as dead as the rest of her family,” Sherlock said, looking over at John. “Not good?”

“No. Not good.”

“What I did, what _we_ did,” she emphasized, “we did to protect ourselves, you _and_ the baby. I am sorry. I know that Mary paid full price for it,” Irene said, sniffing.

John didn’t know he felt about her admission, and he didn’t buy those big tears. She’d fooled them too many times to believe her. And it in John’s mind, it didn’t justify what they’d done. His hands squeezed into tight fists and his jaw clenched and twitched. “You have the flash drive?” John spat out.

“I would never be so foolish to have it on me!.”

“Where?” John asked as he watched Sherlock pace.

“It is imperative that you hand give it to us,” Sherlock said. “Along with what we learned in the lab, it could reveal some way to possibly make it mutate into something harmless--”

“It’s all useless, don’t you see?” she said, crossing her arms. “Besides I already handed it over. I should have known that I needed more protection from your brother than from Culverton. He threatened to send me into Afghanistan.” John raised an eyebrow.

“You may think that’s fine, but I hardly do. Anyway, he had some of these men try to intimidate me. It wasn’t necessary. I told them everything I know. What good it will do, I don’t know.”

“What good will it do?” John shouted. “That’s not for you to decide! They have to find out how to stop the mutation.” He had a tremendous urge to hit or break something. He ripped the purse Irene’s arm then flung it against hard against the wall next to the bookshelves, sending the contents flying through the air and clattering down to the floor.

Sherlock stepped forward and picked up a lipstick case. “Poison?” he asked tilting his head--to which Irene shook hers. “Listening device then,” he said, opening the case and inspecting the lid.

“A girl can never be too careful,” she said.

“Not careful enough,” he said, spinning around to face John. “We should be expecting…John? What time is it?”

“It’s 2:44,” John said, looking at his mobile.

“Mrs. Hudson isn’t away is she?” Sherlock tapped his bottom lip in thought.

“No, she didn’t say anything about going out,” John said, looking at the clock on the mantel and suddenly realizing what was wrong. “It’s past 2:30, and she’s not running the vacuum!”

Sherlock dropped the lipstick case and rushed down the stairs with John one step behind. Sheer panic gripped him as he and Sherlock called out to her. All he could hear was the telly blaring in the other room and both continued to call out to her before rounding into the livingroom. They came full-stop at the sight of Mrs. Hudson on the telly, sitting at a long, formal table, with Culverton Smith, who sipped tea and nibbled on a biscuit. While John couldn’t detect windows from the camera angle, the natural lighting didn’t need to augmented. The room had the usual feel of aristocracy and old money. Mrs. Hudson looked unharmed, except that she ready to spit nails. One large, well-dressed men stood behind Smith’s chair, another stood behind Mrs. Hudson’s.

“So nice of you to finally join us,” Smith said, patting Mrs. Hudson’s hand, which she yanked away like she’d been struck by an adder. 

“That’s enough of that,” John heard Mrs. Hudson say. Sherlock stepped closer to the television.

“Don’t you dare touch her again!” Sherlock hissed. John heard the delay of Sherlock’s same words eerily echo back.

“What? Or you’ll kill me?” he laughed. “Or maybe big brother will come and snatch me away? It’s not going to happen. You see, I have the power to destroy EVERYTHING. Like that,” he said as he snapped his fingers. “I will deliver death on a grand scale. All I have to do is say one little word. Just like now. I control the great Sherlock Holmes--all I have to do is threaten someone he loves.” He reached over and patted the top of Mrs. Hudson’s head like a good child, and she batted it away.

“Predictable,” Sherlock said, turning to John. “Why are villains so predictable? I suppose you’re sending a car for us, yes.”

“Yes,” Smith said.

“And we have to solve, what? some puzzle for your entertainment?”

“My, look at you. All excited like this is some aphrodisiac. Moriarty was right--you become so aroused by _the game_ . Well, let’s say we go at it. And of course, this is the part where I _should_ say _come_ alone, but of course that’s no fun. We both know Dr. Watson will _come_ anyway. That’s what he does. And your big brother, ever the voyeur, will watch every move from afar. So I won’t use that old trope. Oh, and so sorry about Miss Stevens,” Smith said.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“About her passing,” Smith said.

“Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock squinted his eyes. “Don’t believe him.”

“You should. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson. I will see you soon. For our little climax.”

With that the transmission ended.

“Predictable,” Sherlock said again under his breath as he whirled and started for the door.

“Yeah, you said that already,” John said, following him. “But almost everything’s predictable for you.”

“Everything but you, John.” He turned his head and looked at his friend fondly.

“Well, I’d say that was nice of you to say, but right now we have a mass murderer to catch. And despite sibling rivalry, we are going to tell Mycroft.”

“No need to. Smith was right, he already knows and sees,” Sherlock said, texting. Hopefully, John thought, to Mycroft. “But we _will_ go alone--or as alone as we can be with all of Mycroft’s eyes upon us...”

“Of course,” John looked around, then followed Sherlock out of the apartment. “And where’s Adler? I’m not surprised that she’d slip away.”

“Much like the antigen, she does have a high threshold for self preservation,” Sherlock said.

Magically a cab stopped in front of Sherlock--the same cabbie as before. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and opened the door for John, and they both got in.

“I don’t suppose you could tell us where we’re going,” John asked, watching Sherlock shut the door.

As he looked in the rearview mirror, the driver replied with the address without hesitation.

“Oh,” John said, “I don’t think that’s far from the botanical gardens in Kew.”

“That is part of the Kew Gardens,” Sherlock snapped back.

“Amazing that you’d know that.”

“Not so amazing,” Sherlock said, looking up from his mobile, “Google maps.”

The half hour ride seemed intolerably long to John. He hated being alone with his thoughts again.

“Ah! We’re here,” Sherlock said.

“This has gates and security,” John said-- _of course it had gates and security_ , John thought as he watched them slowly grind open. The cab driver drove through with a nod to security. He half expected Sherlock’s eyes to roll at John’s obvious statement.

“Stuff it,”  John said, “I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm.” But silently John wished for it. He rubbed his eyes. Sometimes Sherlock wasn’t as good at reading John as he thought he was, but one good look at Sherlock lay bare the detective’s deep inner struggle--to keep Mrs. Hudson from harm--not cater to John’s petty self admonishments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always... I kiss my screen for Kudos...I answer and flourish praise on all comments. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am sincerely grateful that you come and read my modest fan fiction. 
> 
> Love you all!


	14. The Strangle of Branches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We last left Sherlock and John on the way to confront Culverton Smith who has poor Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I have the number of chapters up at 18. That means The Sound of Poisons is now complete! I am really excited to be posting the chapters every Monday until the finish!
> 
> I'm really proud of this chapter. Have fun reading it!
> 
> Also, I've lost my Beta, Lieutenant Wolf, for a time-- Anyone who would want to beta the upcoming chapters is welcome to contact me here or on Tumblr.

After circling around the terraced pond in the front of the old manor, the cab rolled to a stop in front of the patio. Sherlock watched as the driver handed a note over his shoulder to John. Folded twice with crisp creases, John turned in over in his hands before he opened it carefully, eyes meeting Sherlock’s above the note. 

“Yes, please read it. We haven’t all day,” Sherlock groused. 

“It says not to go inside and to go directly into Kew Gardens instead,” John said, handing the note to Sherlock. The penmanship was neat, clean with subtle loops. Straightforward subject-verb sentence structure. Diction elevated. Smooth transition, not dictated. A man wrote it. Educated. Culverton Smith. 

Sherlock smiled wickedly at John. “We go inside then,” Sherlock said with a wink.

“Somehow, that’s what I figured you’d say,” John said. 

“That’s what Smith expects,” Sherlock said, as he handed the note back to John. “He knows I’ll do exactly what he tells me not to do.”

“So then shouldn’t you do what he asks you to do since that’s not what he really wants.”

“That would be even more predictable,” Sherlock said, getting out of the cab.

“Yeah... well...” John’s expression instantly went from confused to resigned. He followed the detective across the large patio between the pillars of the front facade. Sherlock wasn’t usually one to fret about others, but John, as always, was the exception. Mrs. Hudson, the other. He quickly assessed John’s current mental state, which left him more concerned.

“Has Mycroft texted back about Miss Stevens?” John asked. 

“He hasn’t answered any of my texts since we were with Miss Adler. Ruling the world is so time consuming.” When he last talked to Miss Stevens, she was showing signs of a reaction. Until then, Sherlock had assumed she was immune. Incorrect. Some of the techs referred to her condition as the “latter stages” of the condition. 

Sherlock stepping back onto the patio, Sherlock covered his mouth and tapped above his upper lip as he observed the manor and grounds. Stately and a bit curious, the back of the estate faced a series of courtyards abutting the Kew Gardens. The grounds were as well-kept as the main house. The symmetry and exterior ornamentation of the manor suggested the same balance and intricacies within. Sherlock also noted security cameras most likely connected to a sophisticated system. The manor afforded numerous exits, but all monitored. As they stepped near the large, wooden flood doors, Sherlock waved and smiled into the camera directly above, then stepped up to the door with purpose and rang the polished brass doorbell. 

A skittish maid opened the door, traditionally dressed. South-east Asian. 24-years-old. Abused as a child. Molested by her father or caretaker, who sold her into domestic servitude. Forced to work for Smith, who holds something over her beyond immigration status. A child. 

Sherlock smiled politely as she ushered them in and invited them to follow her. Her shoes echoed and clicked on the tile floor of the expansive foyer. 

Sherlock was pleased to see that John did his usual military-trained survey for speedy points of exit. John being on the defence was the John he admired most. Still, concern multiplied with every minute that passed. The circles under his eyes were too dark, and the worry lines on his forehead too deep, so he was pleased to see John stop to look up and admire the sculptured ceiling and decorative glass skylights and point to the priceless works that dominated the walls of the expansive entryway. Sherlock knew he really should be collecting data about Smith instead of accessing John’s mental health. So, Sherlock knitted his brow and began to catalog all other necessary data. 

“This way, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” the maid said politely, leading them toward the elevated great hall entryway and shying away from the twin newel staircase. 

“Yes. But I think we’ll just go up there,” Sherlock said, pointing toward the elaborate stairs.

“No, you mustn’t Mr. Holmes. Please follow me.”

“Oh, but I must.” Then as she clutches the locket on the fine chain that dangles around her neck, Sherlock does something surprises himself--he feels something like pity. As she worries the locket between her fingers, her eyes dilate, her pulse quickens. “Don’t fret. Mr. Smith expects that we’ll do as we please,” Sherlock consoled her. “If it was his true intention to stop us, he would have sent one of his apes to greet us, not you.”

“But...he ordered me not to let you go up the stairs.”

“And that is exactly why we’re going up there,” Sherlock said, using his best reassuring tone. “Tell him we ran off--he will understand.”

John looked at him like he’d grown a third head. 

With that the maid scurried off to tell Smith, and Sherlock bounced like a puppy up the left side of the twin stairs with John on his heels. He turned to the left again without a pause, then hesitated only a few times, inspecting the Persian carpet for clues, hands carefully probing the door casings and brass hinges. He sniffed his fingers and licked them. 

“Most of these rooms haven’t been occupied in a long while. Only open and shut for cleaning purposes once a week or sometimes less, but this room…” Sherlock told John.

He stopped in front of the door in question and knocked. “Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock called out and rapped again.

“Sherlock!” came her familiar voice from the other side. “He locked me in--that vile man. You do make some rather unpleasant enemies! Couldn’t you at least find one adversary who was charming or dashing like Sean Connery?”

“Are you okay?” John asked, and turned to Sherlock. “She doesn’t sound like herself, well, except for the Sean Connery part.”

“I can hear you very well, John Watson!”

Sherlock smirked, then reached inside his coat and fished out a lock pick. He held in between his fingers front of John’s face like he’d just discovered the Holy Grail. 

John shook his head in disbelief. “Where did that come from? Was that  _ sewn _ into your coat? What else do you have in that  _ thing _ ?” 

Sherlock nimbly knelt down, pressed his ear to the door, and jostled the pick a bit in the keyhole. “That ‘thing’ as you call it…is my Belstaff, and I’ll thank you to give it the respect it deserves.” Before John could snap his fingers, Sherlock swung the door open. 

Mrs. Hudson jumped out and flung herself at Sherlock, practically knocking him over. She hugged Sherlock tight and rained kisses on the top of his head.

“Bless you, Sherlock. And you too, my dear John!” 

“That’s rich,” John blinked. “Only you’d treat your coat like a precious commodity.”

“Oh, my! Are you two having a domestic?” Mrs. Hudson said. “This is hardly the time for it.”

“It’s not simply ‘ _a coat_ ’; it’s part of my aura, my persona, my...and no, Mrs. Hudson, we are not _having_ _a_ domestic.”

“Yeah, right,” John laughed nervously. It was good to hear John laugh even if it was half hearted. 

Sherlock’s attention shifted, and he tilted his head: Someone was coming slowly up the stairway. They’d have the company he expected in a moment. Now, all he needed was Mycroft to come swooping in.

She gave John one last peck on the cheek, but the excitement dropped from her face as she looked behind them.

“I see you’ve found her. In three minutes and thirty-two seconds,” Smith said, looking at his watch. “Impressive.” Smith stepped up closer behind them. “But what do you do now?”

“We have what we came for, so we leave,” Sherlock said, standing and grabbing Mrs. Hudson by the wrist to pull her along. He could hear heavy foot falls come down the hall from the other direction. 

“Not before I kill this son of a bitch,” John said. “Or break his legs. Or something.”

Smith laughed in both their faces, shaking his head. “My, what an attack dog you have. More bark than bite? No. He does have a bit of a vengeful streak. But sadly, I’m afraid you won’t have the opportunity, Dr. Watson. Sad to say, but neither of you will leave the gardens.”

That was when he heard two high-pitched whistles followed by Mrs. Hudson’s yelp of surprise. That same instant he looked on in horror as a hypodermic dart plunged into John’s chest. 

A sharp pinch in his back confirmed what he too was struck. 

In seconds, his vision blurred, and he saw John fall to the floor. Then it all turned from white to black.

 

\------------------------

Sherlock awoke in a wicker lounge chair on a large back patio facing the courtyards with Mrs. Hudson sitting on the edge of the chair he was in. Her brow pinched with worry as she fussed over him. As his vision cleared, he recollected his circumstances. The sun was fading, casting long shadows and the air, made heavier with fog, was rich with scent of dianthus and lavender. Even more worrisome no John Watson. Smith, dressed in an expensive deep burgundy cashmere suit, was sprawled in a second wicker chair, smiling at him from over the lip of his crystal martini glass. 

“Where is John? What have you done with him?” Sherlock asked. He tried to sit up a bit to test his back, but met with an agonizing pain that cascaded down his spine. 

“I’ll bet you’ve asked those questions a good many times over the years?” Smith smirked. “So sorry this will be the last time.”

Things were slowly coming back into focus, and he marked his landlady carefully. She seemed to be physically unharmed--but he was unsure since whatever was used to knock him out had given him another blazing headache that slowed his mental processes. 

“How are you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock whispered to her, ignoring Smith and struggling to sit again--this time with more success. 

“I’ll be alright I expect,” she said, biting her lip and frowning as she helped Sherlock sit up. Sherlock didn’t like seeing her upset like this. After all, the only person who should ever be allowed to upset her was himself! He shook his head to clear it, but that wasn’t right... over an hour had elapsed. Mycroft  _ should  _ be here. Where was he? 

“If you’re wondering where your brother is, he’s being kept very busy!” Smith said, taking another sip of his martini.

He felt Mrs. Hudson reach for his right hand and hold it tight. Her rings dug into his hand a bit, but the gesture made him feel grounded. He turned to study Smith. He looked unwell. Pale. A tinge of a bluish cast to his complexion intentionally made less pronounced by subtle makeup and the deep-red of his suit. Ankles swollen. 

“Sherlock! Oh dear, this dreadful man, he had some horrible person all dressed like a spaceman inject John with something unpleasant, then he took him away!” 

“I’ll get him back safe, Mrs Hudson. Don’t you worry.”

“There you go, giving this kind lady false hope. Very thoughtless of you. You should know that there will be no good end to this. And I have you to thank! So much simpler coming to me,” Smith said, catching his breath. “Do enjoy knowing people suffer! Remember? I promised to take what you love most in this world and turn it against you. And I will. I’ve already begun.”

“Yes, yes. I know…” Sherlock said, feigning ambivalence, “oh, and ‘the road to eternal life is death.’  _ Blah, blah, blah _ . Are there any other aphorisms you’d like to share with me now that you have my undivided attention?”

“No need to add more. Those have eaten away at you enough. I’m having so much fun.”

Sherlock didn’t much like the way Smith looked at Mrs. Hudson. 

“You touch her, harm her in any way, and I. Will. Kill. You,” Sherlock said, squeezing her hand.

“You’re not in any shape to be making threats,” Smith said, setting his martini aside. “But go ahead, it’s most entertaining.”

Mrs. Hudson threw Culverton a look that would turn anyone else to stone, then nodded to Sherlock in reassurance. She was a tough lady. 

“Where, oh, where is that brother of yours?!” Smith said, clapping his hands. “I guess somethings are just more important than you!”

Sherlock tried not to let hate overcome reason. He needed to think. He needed time in his mind palace. The pain he could ignore, but all these ever present emotions tumbling around became impossible to push aside. He needed,  _ he must _ , protect them, but he could not if he was chained with emotion. Sherlock hated relying on Mycroft, but honestly, what good was his brother and his influential position if he couldn’t do something as simple as follow them?

“My, my. It’s getting dark out now, and a bit foggy,” Smith said. “It will become more and more difficult to find Dr. Watson out there. You should have gone earlier as I instructed, but you never do as you’re told, do you Mr. Holmes? I bet as a child you were  _ very  _ naughty. He’s still naughty, isn’t he, Mrs. Hudson?” She snorted and looked at Sherlock, who began to sit forward more, ignoring the pain.

“Tick, tock. You’re running out of daylight. Now, off with you into Kew Gardens...your doctor is waiting. Somewhere. I can’t say that he’s safe though, what with all those  _ vines _ about, and him being already exposed multiple times! Suffering...dying...alone.”

“You’re the dead man if anything happens to him.”

“No, Mr. Holmes. You are.”

Mrs. Hudson gripped Sherlock’s hand again. “Go, help your young man. I’ve handled you and yours all these years--some impotent rapscallion doesn’t phase me in the least.”

Sherlock hesitated, but Mrs. Hudson helped him stand. He kissed her on the cheek, then sprinted out across the lawn through the courtyards on unsteady legs. Pushing back against the pain, he jumped the fence into the Kew Gardens. 

The best way to get his brother’s attention was to have Scotland Yard called in, so Sherlock texted Lestrade as he ran. No time to wait. He had to locate John. The gardens were vast, but he knew Smith wouldn’t have taken John far. And Smith didn’t take their mobiles--indicating that Smith did want Sherlock to find his doctor. Sherlock took advantage and rang John’s mobile and continued to ring him as he made his way through a wooded area. He pushed himself faster, his legs burned, but he ignored it. As while his head throbbed and pain spiked and tore at his back, he ignored that too. Sherlock checked the GPS on his mobile. He wasn’t far from the Kew’s Treetop Walkway. John couldn’t be far. But where? He had to find him. Soon.

If he could just get up higher, he might be able to spot John or pinpoint his partner using the ringer on his mobile. Sherlock located the Treetop Walkway and dashed toward the structure that was raised 18 meters above the ground. His head thrummed with each pounding footfall. He was sweating and drenched with it, which was not normal. When he got to the walkway stairs, his long legs took the steps two-fold, and he grasped the railway, half dragging himself up. He pushed himself faster up the winding wooden stairway to the top. There, he stood in front of the railings and spied out and over and below, then listened. Silence. His mobile in hand, he redialed John and disconnected. Redialed and disconnected. He manically repeated the process. Where was he? He hollered out his name over and over. He thought he heard a faint ring. He began walking quickly down the Skyway, zig-zagging from one side of the rails to the other, never stopping, calling frantically, listening. He followed the circuit of the skyway. In the dusk it felt like a maze. It wasn’t until he made it over half way around that he clearly heard John’s mobile below and right. He stopped, heart slamming against his chest. He heard a muffled groan. 

“John! John! Answer me!” Another groan. Not far below. It would take too much time to go back around, then down the skywalk’s stairs to get to him.

Climbing under the structure and down the rusted steel columns didn’t look possible, but a large oak tree was close with promising branches. In his usual condition he could leap out and latch on with little effort. He wasn’t in his usual condition, and he hadn’t climbed a tree in a bit, but as a youth, he rather enjoyed the challenge and opportunities being above it all and looking down on others afforded. Hopefully, experience will win out. One glance down the path, and he spotted someone in uniform coming toward him with purpose in their gait, which made the choice all the more palatable. 

“Sir! What are you doing here?” the young man called to him, coming closer. About 21, worked for park security part-time to make ends meet. Sick relative at home. Possibly aunt. 

“The Park is closed, sir, you need to leave.” Had Napoleon Complex. Liked to give the middle finger to authority, hence the red trainers with the uniform. 

“Please call an ambulance immediately,” Sherlock said. With that Sherlock stuffed his mobile in his pocket, took off his coat and threw it over the side of the railing. With a wave to the shocked security guard, Sherlock climbed on the top of the weathered rail.

“Sir! What are you doing?” the guard said, cautiously inching up to him. “You can’t do that! Get off the railing!”

Teetering there momentary, Sherlock scrutinized for that golden spot to fling himself most safely into the tree. Crossing his fingers that he didn’t break something in the process, he jumped for the most promising branch. 

Unfortunately, the branch he grabbed snapped off in his hands, and he crashed chest first into another large limb with plenty of dead twigs poking out, digging into him. He slammed backwards into another hefty branch. He bounced, and fell down farther, being pummeled and scraped by limbs and twigs. The punishment continued as he landed chest first onto another large branch that forced the wind from him--worse, he felt a sickening snap that wasn’t a twig followed by a flood of pain. At least the impact of that last limb slowed him down enough to wrap his legs around the next solid branch, and this time it was strong enough hold his weight. It hurt to breathe, and blood trickled into his eyes, but he’d stopped his fall. As he hung upside down, he thought crossed his mind how angry John will be that he cracked a rib again. 

“Sir! No tree climbing is allowed without skilled instructors!” he heard from above.

“Now he tells me,” Sherlock muttered. 

The pain in his back and head were nothing now compared to his ribs, and he half fell and swung himself toward a V in the trunk of the tree. From there, he scrambled best he could down the labyrinth of limbs. He could make out the ground, and as he got on the large branch below him, he decided to drop down the last 14 feet to earth--not far from his Belstaff either. He swung by his arms like a drunken monkey on the branch parallel to the ground, then let go when he was somewhat perpendicular. The impact of his feet jarred his ribs, pain blossomed in his chest, and he cursed under his breath. Still, he felt like kissing the ground. 

He grabbed his coat, then called out to John as he redialed this mobile again. Behind the scrubs, he heard it ring in return along with John call back “Sherlock! Here!” He wiped the blood from his eyes and lept through the bushes to his partner.

His chest tightened as he bent down to a half-conscious John, face up, staring at the sky through the canopy of trees above. John’s breathing was shallow, and he had an angry rash on his swollen hands. Sherlock rushed closer to check him.

He could hear John’s moans, see him shaking his head no. His voice was raw and clipped.

“Get away,” John said. “It’s not me that’s  _ in  _ danger, it’s you. Don’t come n-near me. Don’t t-touch me.”

“Help is coming. Tell me what he did to you,” Sherlock said. He already knew but had to keep John talking. He leaned nearer, hands resting above John’s head and clutched the grass between his fingers in frustration. To be near. To see. To protect.

“Just get back--you’re too close,” John said, his arms stiff at his sides. He moved them robotically to shoo Sherlock away. “I had the oddest dream...Never wake up. I. Sh-sherlock? I don’t want you to go into anaphylactic shock. Do NOT touch me. And tell the paramedics that I’m highly contagious when they get here. That should keep them away. I don’t want anyone d-dead because of me.”

“I’m not so certain. You aren’t presenting like you’re an antigen. You look more like you’ve been sensitized to the allergen and are exhibiting signs of a reaction yourself.” John’s face was puffy and ruddy, and the dark circles were much more pronounced under his eyes.

“I’m certain enough, certain enough to not to risk your life! I’ve been exposed repeatedly.  _ Just a bee sting, _ he said. But it was  _ an injection _ . An injection laced with more than what would just ‘knock me out’,” John said, his eyes glassy. “I dreamt I was dead. In an endless sleep.”

“John, your thoughts are becoming disconnected. Miss Stevens. The same happened to her. Tell me what he did to you.” Sherlock stood up and slapped his coat.  _ Where was Mycroft? _ “Focus on me.”

“Smith was sooo d-delighted to explain to me how he was ending the world before he had some of his spooky-do men knock me out again and b-bring me out here. All in front of poor Mrs. Hudson. Is that crazy? But I think that wasn’t a dream. I wasn’t meant to be awake yet--you were sup-posed to find me and try to revive me and end up dead in the process. Ha! I guess Smith didn’t f-factor into the equation that I’ve been knocked out so many times with anes-s-s… anesetheee…”

“Anesthesia,” Sherlock helped.

“Yes, damn it, thank you. Anyway... the dosage wasn’t high enough. I came to before expected. I’m sure that ass hat didn’t think that would happen. At least I think I’m awake. I am, aren’t I? It makes no sense. Why put me here? Like my dream. I was dead. Or in a sleep like death. Lots of trees. With lots of vines climbing all over me. They itched. I itch! It’s not like this place--no v-vines at all. In the dream I was like Sleepppping B-beau-ty in a forrrrrest. That makes you...Prince Charming.”

“John, you’re trying to be funny while talking funny. It’s not a good combination.” Sherlock said. “But it’s Prince Philip in Sleeping Beauty not Prince Charming.”

“Yeah, well my throat and tongue are sw-welling. I can’t help what I dream or hallucinate or what ever the hell that was? And you knowing fairy tales! That’s sweet that you didn’t delete it. You’re handsome even with your cheekbones all scatched up. And I have to keep Prince Charming away. Where’s the Benadryl? I thought I had some in my jacket pocket just in case, but can’t seem to find it. Must be my fingers aren’t w-working.”

John quickly rolled away when he realized Sherlock was leaning down and reaching for his jacket. “N-n-no! St-ay out of my pockets!” John ordered. “Don’t  _ you _ look for it. Where is Mycroft when you really need him? Always bloody around when you don’t, the bastard.” 

Sherlock was wondering the same. At least Lestrade should be here. With John’s every exhale, Sherlock heard a distinct wheeze and John’s neck throbbed from his rapid pulse. In addition, Sherlock was having a hard time focusing himself. His head pounded, and he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. He didn’t know what from: the hypodermic dart that knocked him out, the fall from the tree, possible anaphylactic shock, or his prior concussion via lamp. Sherlock took a shaky breath and ignored his transport: John was what mattered. John at all costs. Sherlock factored that John would be fine for a time since in every instance where a person had died, the onset was rapid...John was talking, maybe not coherently, but he was aware. He wasn’t meant to die from anaphylactic shock--yet. 

Then there was John’s reminder of Miss Stevens. A carrier of the toxin. She was showing signs of a reaction when he’d seen her. Had it progressed? Was she still alive?

“What happened to  _ you _ ?” John asked suddenly, blinking his eyes as if seeing Sherlock for the first time. “It looks like you fell out of a tree or something. And you’re missing a shoe!” 

As he pulled a leaf from his hair, Sherlock looked down at himself. He brushed bark off his blue silk shirt with the back of his hand. Blast! It was torn. And he hadn’t noticed that his foot hurt until now. Where  _ had  _ his shoe gone?

“You g-git! You d-did! I thought I dreamt the s-sound of b-branches sn-snapping, but I did h-hear them! Prince Ch-charming lost his shoe! I thought that Cinderella lost her slipper not Prince Charming! or um, I stand corrected, Prince Philip in Sleeping Beauty? Hmmm. Bollocks! This is too confusing.”

Sherlock choked back a laugh before rushing over and bending down to throw up in the bushes. Then, he lifted his head and saw the torch lights in the distance. At last. Someone was coming. 


	15. Your Pillow, a Little Turf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Institute, Sherlock fights boredom and John his inner doubts. So they both make a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming to the climax in the next chapter...

Finally Mycroft arrived with a small army of men in blue hazmat suits in tow, hefting stretchers and large silver bags filled with medical supplies. Sherlock slumped against a tree, struggling to put on his shoe. He kept just far enough out of the way so that they could attend John properly without interference (not that he’d ever interfere), yet close enough to be certain that his friend received proper care. Just behind Sherlock stood the confused park security guard, who looked on aghast at the alien sight before him.    


“How is Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock blurted out.

“She is safe. No harm came to her,” Mycroft said.

“He needs attention too,” John insisted, pointing at Sherlock with some effort. 

Sherlock shook his head. To him, John was all wrong. He shouldn’t look fragile and helpless there on the ground. While Sherlock continued to refuse help, John kept at it--insisting. 

“He just threw up in the b-bushes,” John said, directly to Mycroft. “He probably has another concussion. Look at him. His posh suit is ruined, and his face is scratched raw. He f-fell out of a f-fucking tree.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smirked at Sherlock. “Do tell…”

“I didn’t fall out of the tree,” Sherlock said, standing up stiffly, which didn’t help his cause any. “I jumped into it, then climbed down.”

“No you didn’t,” said the security guard, who was largely unnoticed until then. He stepped forward and continued. “You leapt  _ toward _ the tree, bounced like a pinball halfway down against the branches, then plunked down the trunk the rest of the way.”

“It was a controlled fall. All calculated,” Sherlock said with the most bored tone he could muster, arms hugging his chest.    


“Yeah. Right. I th-thought so. He p-probably b-broke some ribs. Ch-check him.” 

“John! I’m fine!” 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. You are not _ fine _ .”

“Only you would argue with my brother when you’re sprawled out on the ground in dire need of help. Ever the healer,” Mycroft said crossly, then rolled his eyes and turned on Sherlock, who was pleased that Mycroft thought John needed attention first. However, Mycroft scowled at his brother and dressed him down as well. “And why did you call Scotland Yard when you knew I was on my way? It took almost 15 minutes to convince detective Lestrade that his help was not needed. He was like a pitbull. Whatever did you send to him in that text to get him so worked up?”

“The truth.” Sherlock watched as they took John’s pulse again, rechecked his blood pressure and began prepping for an IV.

“I was afraid of that. Why must you insist on making my life more complicated? We’ll use the same story we’re spoon feeding the press and public. It just gets so tedious repeating oneself.”

As he batted away someone who professed to be a doctor, Sherlock returned the eye roll to Mycroft.

“Accept the help, Sherlock; you do look rather a wreck,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head and frowned at a second failed attempt to get an IV started in John. The morons! Sherlock was tempted to do it himself. What was so difficult about finding a vein? “Where did you find these people? People in my homeless network could do better than them. Get someone competent and quit jabbing him like a pincushion.” 

“Will you sh-shut it, Sherlock, and let them d-do their jobs!”

“Such sour attitudes--but It might cheer you both to know that we have Culverton Smith,” Mycroft said, looking down with satisfaction at his brother who’d slumped back to the ground against the tree. “He met our men at the main door himself, raving about how he’d won, droning on about how it was the ‘end of the world.’ I’m sure he thinks he’s succeeded. Too bad, no end of the world--at least not today. Sorry to disappoint. We should tell him that at some point-- although we are keeping that information from him for now.”

“I’d like to keep him from b-breathing,” John sputtered. “Give him his own medicine: let me t-touch him,” John said, voiced slurring more with each word. “Or sl-lobber all over him. That’d m-make him go into ana...ana…”

“Anaphylactic shock,” Sherlock helped John, then turned to a new tech with a needle. “And stop jabbing him to get a line in for the IV! His veins have collapsed.”

Mycroft frowned and people shrunk away. 

“Finally,” Sherlock said with a smirk. His brother had that effect on others.    


“He said something about a metaphorical button he pushed, ‘unleashing chaos,’ he said. Chaos? Hardly. Although he did cause a bit of havoc that needed attending,” Mycroft said. “Sorry it took so long to get to you, but he caused a bit of a stir at Hyde Park earlier. Six people dead. However, in the end, he underestimated me--or rather you, Sherlock. We found a way to make the host unpalatable, as you suggested. The mutations will now be rendered harmless in humans. All vines, however, need to be destroyed, but we will eradicate them in time. We are issuing a public safety announcement.”

“Without causing a panic,” Sherlock added, standing up again and stepping protectively next to John.

“Of course. We also are unsure of the long-term effects of the serum, but it’s better than the alternative--death. It worked successfully on Miss Stevens. Doctor?” 

“What ch-choice do I have? Give it to me.” With those words, one of the men rolled up John’s shirt and jabbed him with a needle. “I’m s-surprised you even gave m-me the option.” 

“You really didn’t,” Mycroft said. “No one else does either. In fact, the majority will never know. Ignorance is bliss, shall we say. Smith seeded the clouds and as he sows, so shall we.”

“Spare me your weak play on words and worse euphemisms,” Sherlock said, stepping closer while biting back a gasp of pain.

Mycroft cast his eyes up and down his brother. “Dr. Watson is right, you  _ do _ have a broken rib. Or two.”

“If you’d done your job and followed us as planned, we wouldn’t be standing here,” Sherlock said, ignoring his brother’s hand of support, “John wouldn’t be on the ground being probed by idiots with IVs, and my shirt and trousers wouldn’t be--unsalvageable. Your excuse? Too busy with an incident at Hyde Park. No! Everything you  _ do _ is calculated. What was it? I think you needed another guinea pig to ‘test’ your serum on. Enter John Watson.”

“And by the looks of you, my dear brother, enter Sherlock Holmes too. Now, please to take off your coat and roll up what’s left of your sleeve. It seems you need an injection,” Mycroft said, with a flat smile. “We can give you and John the remaining treatments when we get back to the institute.”

“Institute! Treatments!” Sherlock said, but cut his tirade short after one look at John. He took a deep breath, but grudgingly did as his brother asked. His face remained stoic as he watched the injection. 

“There’s a servant in the house, a maid. South-east Asian, most probably Malaysian,” Sherlock said, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “She has a child being held somewhere by Smith. You’ll know the child by a photo in a locket that the young woman wears. I expect you to find that child and make sure her and her mother are both taken to safety and helped in any way necessary.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed, with a smile. “Is that a heart I hear beating beneath that torn Dolce shirt?!”

\---------------------

John woke to the sound of twin beep beeps of the EKG and an IV in each arm. The familiar white walls with chrome appliances sealed them in. Sterile with airtight plexiglass that afforded them little or no privacy. Sure, there was a perfunctory curtain, but it was sheer and as transparent as the actions that went on behind the glass. A hive of commotion happened beyond the barriers--of which he and Sherlock were the focal points. Like ants in a child’s mason jar or the mice in the lab maze, every move scrutinized. He turned his head to Sherlock in the bed next to him. He’d felt someone else’s trained concentration coming from a familiar source. While there were times when having Sherlock’s steely, pinprick focus narrowed on him made John uneasy, today wasn’t one of them. It was a comfort.

In the next bed, Sherlock shivered. His chest was packed with ice, along with gauze covering the wounds on his arms and legs. Sherlock squirmed on the bed, huffing and slapping the mattress. Typical bored Sherlock.

“Obviously no lungs punctured. How many ribs fractured?” John asked.

Sherlock held up two fingers in a victory sign, and John shook his head. “How many places?”

Sherlock held up all five fingers. “Torn cartilage?” Sherlock nodded in response. “I’d say you look better, but that would be a lie.”

“Why, thank you, John.” His voice was low and strained but retained all that is Sherlock--a combination of the ‘I’m-patently-bored’ and the ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ rumble. 

“You, however, _ do _ look and sound better,” Sherlock added.

With those words, a tidal wave of memories roared over John--he  _ shouldn’t _ look better. Or sound better. Or feel better. Or be better ever again. Mary’s dead. So many others dead. And he was alive.

A knot, hard and unforgiving, lived within him. He’d been fooled so many times. By Sherlock. By Mary. Her actions brought suffering and death to so many. At least Sherlock’s deception was selfless. But nevertheless, John was blind to all of it until the very end. And now, what was his daughter’s fate? How would she pay for her father’s blindness? She’d never have a mother. Possibly never a father if this serum fails to work. All that left him feeling helpless. He hated feeling helpless. And of course, he realized immediately that Sherlock read it all in just one glance of John’s face. 

“Mycroft believes we are in the clear,” Sherlock said, teeth chattering, “but he’s having his minions exercise caution to make certain that the antidote works without relapse. They had to expose us further to be certain--there’s serum in one of your IVs.”

John nodded absently at him.

“I need more warm blankets,” Sherlock complained, pushing the call button, then turning back to John. “And they should wrap my ribs not chill me like I’m a side of beef.”

John struggled to focus on Sherlock’s words and reverted to doctor mode.    


“They didn’t use compression wraps to help splint your ribs because it increases the risk of lung infection and pneumonia,” John said.

“It’s cold. I might catch pneumonia from all these ice packs,” Sherlock whined.

“You don’t get pneumonia from catching a chill. I’ve explained that to you before...when you jumped into the Thames. You must have deleted it.” 

Sherlock let out a disgruntled huff and narrowed his eyes at John. “I’m not certain  _ you’d _ recall, but Mrs. Hudson is safe and well. They also brought Rosie in earlier. I told them to bring her back as soon as you were conscious,” Sherlock said, and his lips curled into a grin through chattering teeth. “She’s beautiful, John.”

It was starting to feel like ants were crawling all over his body. John suppressed the urge to dig and scratch his arms and legs. 

“Where’d they take Smith?” John tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible. Of course, Sherlock didn’t buy it.

The detective hesitated before answering. “He’s here, actually. As I said, extreme precautions are being taken. Anyone in the area of his house or at Techwood has to be quarantined. Although they aren’t inoculating them unless they exhibit signs.”

“I thought Mycroft said something about seeding clouds and covering London,” John said.

“Yes, it seems he was ahead of Smith for the most part. Mycroft told me that since the side effects aren’t known, the MI6 are only seeding clouds in areas that Smith seeded.”

“That’s bloody reassuring.”

“It might cheer you up to know that Irene had to have the serum too.”

He turned his head away and bit his lip. It bothered him that he could still feel jealous of that woman. 

Sherlock tugged on his IV. “Where are they? You can see them scurrying around out there.” He waved toward the partition, then pressed the call button again. 

“Yes?” a voice came over Sherlock’s intercom. “What do you need  _ now _ , Mr. Holmes?”

“Bring some warm blankets. And tell my brother that Doctor Watson is awake. And while you’re at it, tell Mycroft I want these cameras turned off! I don’t want people watching me use a bedpan! And I’d also like more hot tea for myself and Doctor Watson.”

John closed his eyes. Sherlock giving orders. Nothing changes. Sometimes a person needed someone like Sherlock to order others about. Afterall, he did want to see Rosie although the idea of parenthood, an agonizing weight on his chest, crushed him. This defenseless child was now his number one responsibility. She shouldn’t be a burden. All these months he looked forward to the day of her birth. It was going to be a celebration! Now, a shadow would fall on her every birthday. How could he look at his daughter without remembering that it was also day that her mother died? How could she not feel it too?

John closed his eyes. His chest felt like he was the one with the broken ribs, not Sherlock. He wished he was numb again. Instead, his senses tingled. The creeping, crawling itchiness, the needles prickling his arms, the pads rubbing on his chest and back. Loss became an insatiable worm eating away inside him. At least his daughter was safe. And Mrs. Hudson. 

And Sherlock.

What he would like most in this world right now was to find Smith and put a bullet between his eyes. Second thought, that would be too fast. Something slow. Painful. Ten-thousand bee stings? The Rack? Some other Medieval torture? Smith was here. He could make him pay. But not if he was helpless in this bed.

Then he saw Sherlock’s attention shift to the right and behind the plexiglass partition. He followed Sherlock’s gaze, and there was his Rosie, swaddled up in a nurse’s arms. He didn’t recognize who held her at first because of the head-to-toe hazmat suit, but the love in her eyes was hard to miss. 

Mrs. Hudson cooed and murmured to Rosie as she rocked her gently, smiling in at John and Sherlock through the glass. Sherlock groaned in an attempt at what John thought at first was an effort to see better, but then realized that Sherlock had other ideas.

“Don’t get up!” John barked out. “Why are you getting up?!”

“I need to push your the bed closer to the window so you can see her better.”

“Sherlock, no. I can see just fine from here,” he said as Sherlock slid his legs off the side of the bed doing his best not to cringe. “I swear, Sherlock, if you hurt yourself more and I end up waiting on you hand and foot along with a baby, I will throttle you!”

“Sounds exciting!” Sherlock said, testing the floor with his feet. “Would you do it with your bare hands or use one of your hideous ties?”

John pushed his call button and hollered, “Get someone bloody in here to move my bed before Sherlock punctures a lung or something. Now!”

That got the attention needed. Within moments three men rushed in and two moved his hospital bed to the far-right window partition while the third tried to make Sherlock get back into bed.

Mrs. Hudson brought Rosie closer, tilting the bundle. He could see her tiny fists, her button nose. Blonde tufts of hair sticking out. John covered his face with his hands to push back the sobs that threatened. In the background, he heard Sherlock arguing with all three of the men. 

“Sherlock, you complete and utter pisspot, stop! And you three, do NOT help that man out of bed!” Then he turned back to Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. 

“Tell Mycroft the cameras come out, or I’m leaving!” Sherlock shouted.

At least Sherlock’s antics stopped the threat of tears. He turned back to Rosie and made silly faces that all fathers should practice to get their daughters to laugh. 

It worked for Mrs. Hudson too.

\-----------------------------

John slept for most of that day and the next while Sherlock deduced and probed each unfortunate person who happened to come in the room to check vitals, serve meals or give updates on their condition. It did little to abate the boredom, but through it all he had determined exactly where Culverton Smith was being held. 

Mycroft kept away, however. It was uncanny. Or intentional.

He needed details: How much longer must they stay in this place? When were they to be released? His mobile was useless here. Signal poor. Wifi--at least the one that was allowed-- blocked everything. All news, outside sources were forbidden. He’d tried to crack the password. That at least was proving a challenge. 

But Mycroft? During any other time of his life, Mycroft would be hovering and casting his large and ample shadow over Sherlock. Nothing delighted Mycroft more than watching Sherlock pinned to a board like an insect. He should be in here taunting and gloating. Something was off. Something big. He could only enjoy watching Sherlock suffer from afar for so long. What was Mycroft up to? 

Not knowing, put him in a black mood. Nothing to do. Dull. IV attached. Ordered to stay in bed. No violin (not that he could even attempt to play it now). No crimes to solve. Duller. And for the most part, no John to talk to. Dullest of all. The Mind Palace offer temporary relief, but even there, John became the focus. In every room. Only John. During the times John had been actually conscious, Sherlock watched him. It was all the kept his interest. While John ate. While John’s jaw twitched. While John watched Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. While John stared at the ceiling. While he fought back anger. And while he choked away tears. He watched him sleep and dream and have nightmares. John. John. John. Watching John was the only thing worth doing in this place. The rest was dull.

So, he tried having what John called “normal” conversation, but John would not “talk” to him. John would yell, he’d bitch, and he’d nag, but he wouldn’t “talk.” John remained disengaged. The only word that got any substance from John was “Smith.”

That left Sherlock to resort to watching, deducing, and planning.

  
While John slept, Sherlock practiced standing. Then walking with the IV in tow. They’d kept serious pain medication from Sherlock, but he would need  _ something _ if he was to do this. Nothing that would affect his mental faculties, but something to dull the pain. So he complained and wheedled, then tucked the Tylenol with Codeine they gave him under his tongue, then hid it inside a hole he’d punctured in his mattress. 

Dull. And too easy. He pulled the sheets over his head and feigned sleep.


	16. This Big Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are roaring into the climax of our story, where the evil adversary meets his match in Sherlock Holmes. In this alternate S4, Culverton Smith is more than a serial killer, he’s a mass murder bent on annihilating over half of the world’s population.

Over the next days since there was little else to do and because he needed it like air, Sherlock continued to study the workings of his environment and John. He finally had the IV removed, and John was down to one. Their environment was on a strict timetable that never deviated. Meds same times, vitals taken same times. Boring. John, however, was not boring. But what he observed, tormented Sherlock to his core. He felt this helpless nervousness that not even time or his Mind Palace could still. He watched as his friend hammered himself with hate, guilt, depression, and Sherlock felt impotent as how to help him other than observe and deduce. Utilizing the science of deduction, Sherlock proceeded to establish a constructive conclusion.

His first observation: John’s sleeping habits. He took a nap every day at about 2 p.m., and the length of the nap varied from 55 minutes to 60 minutes. Most days, he took other naps in the morning and late afternoons, but the duration of said naps varied greatly. Sherlock also noted that John woke frequently at night. Some nights he would lie awake for a long periods before sleeping, others he would wake every 15 minutes to half an hour. During the times when he woke, he either got up and paced, read, or more often, stared blankly at the ceiling. He did, however, seem have a regular window of uninterrupted sleep every evening between 11:30 p.m. and 2 a.m.

The second observation: John had his limp back. He limped into the bathroom. He limped out. He limped to the partition to see Rosie (although it wasn’t as pronounced as any other time).

The third observation: John was not eating sufficiently. Sherlock could sustain himself on little nourishment, but as John had pointed out many times over the years, John could not. Sherlock found that instead of John prodding him to eat, he was now prodding John. His friend generally enjoyed a good breakfast--in fact, Sherlock found that he loved watching John eat: how he smiled with a mouthful of eggs, how he licked his lips to catch a crumb from Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits or clean off his finger with a pop after eating toast and jam. One thing John always had was a healthy appetite. At first Sherlock attributed his lack thereof to the quality of the institutional food; it was bland and unappetizing. However, after coaxing the staff to bring in something more palatable, John still pushed his food around the plate and picked at it.

The fourth and most distressing observation: John’s facial expressions were no longer animated. Even Rosie’s appearance brought only a stilted smile. John was no longer John. He was flat. Listless. Except when John got angry, which happened less and less.

John had yet to have any real conversations with Sherlock or anyone else. John had a difficult time sustaining any topic of substance. He told Sherlock to eat, to rest, to quit asking for cigarettes, to stop being an arse to the nurses, or to quit pacing the room. Mere words of habit. He wasn’t his usual affable John Watson, who rejoiced as he flirted and joked and struck up conversations with almost everyone he met. Instead he’d answer doctors’ and nurses’ questions in clipped, short sentences or merely nodded or shook his head. While Sherlock shunned sentiment, a point which John rather agreed with him on especially when it came to vocalizing “feelings,” they generally could hold long conversations about what John referred as “every day chat.” That didn’t even occur. It wasn’t that John refused to talk--it was that he’d lost interest. His mouth and mind stuttered then stopped mid-sentence. He would stare. And think. At least that is what Sherlock surmised. And it was evident that whatever John was thinking about was unpleasant. That terrified Sherlock.

This was why Sherlock took his “talking” a step further: He broke their unspoken rule. He vocalized his feelings. He learned from John that supporting friends and those you cared for through actions and words healed and comforted them. So he dug down and told John he cared. That he was sorry for the many times he was cruel or uncaring. That he would wait for John no matter how long it took to heal. Even this, Sherlock couldn’t cajole a word with depth or passion from his friend’s lips.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” was all he got in return. And his expression remained flat. Not even the mention of “the woman” phased him.

One exception to the fourth observation: The mention of Culverton Smith’s name. John would shake--and Sherlock had seen that shaking before--not from fear, but from anger. Driven hate. After, John would go into some deep, black space that Sherlock couldn’t follow. It was a place Sherlock knew well.

His conclusion: John had always said words we important, but it was actions that really mattered. Sherlock understood the importance of actions.  If he was going to help John and his daughter, then he must act for he’d deduced what John had planned.

\--------------------------------

11:15 p.m. Sherlock woke and pulled the sheets from over his head and let his eyes adjust. The lights were dimmed as usual for the night shift, but something was wrong. It sounded different. Like less.

John was asleep. Only one nurse hovered around behind the plexiglass partitions. Unattentive. Distracted. Problems at home. Most probably husband. Sherlock dug into the side of his mattress. Four Tylenol with codeine tablets. He popped all four in his mouth, and washed them down with the lukewarm water next to his bed, then pulled the sheet back over his head and waited.

11:48 p.m. The nurse had finally stepped away from her station--most likely to use her mobile and check unfaithful spouse’s whereabouts. John was still sound asleep. The codeine deadened the pain considerably for Sherlock as he silently stood and used the dirty blankets and sheets from the hamper to artfully form the shape of his body in his bed. He stepped back and admired his handiwork, satisfied that it resembled his own sleeping form with the sheets pulled over his head.

Opening their room’s locked door was simple. Sherlock had determined the pass code the first few times one of the nurses left the room. Although it changed daily, it was easy enough to decipher. One didn’t even need to see what numbers, one just needed to listen.

No cameras. Sherlock took care of them the second day with his complaints to Mycroft. All he needed to do was avoid the camera in the nurse’s station and remove an id card without detection.

Walking proved more of a challenge than getting into the storage room adjacent to the nurse’s station. In the locked closet, he found a phlebotomy tote to aid in his assimilation along with a head-to-toe hazmat suit that he struggled into. He clipped the id tag on backwards, then stepped into the hallway.

Sherlock still couldn’t place what sounded wrong.

12:02 a.m. In service elevator, Sherlock tapped the third floor button. He was moving slower than he’d like, but he had been able to easily avoid detection. The suit allowed him entrance without question and covered his identity nicely. He couldn’t let go of the how the ambient sound differed. Something was absent. A thrumming background vibration. The door opened to the third floor. He knew there would be at least one or two guards whom he’d need to get around. As in most institutions, more precautions are taken to prohibit people from exiting rather than entering.

“Need to draw some blood,” he said to one of the guards at the locked door and looked over their shoulders through the glass partition into the room.

“This time of night? He’s not going to be happy,” the guard said.

“We’re not here to make him happy,” Sherlock said smugly, snapping one of the elastic tourniquets and getting a chuckle from the guards. They keyed in their codes, then unbolted the door, and let Sherlock through, test tubes rattling in the tote.

He appeared to be sleeping. Didn’t even stir when Sherlock came in. The door bolted behind him, then after making sure the guards’ backs were turned, Sherlock covertly dragged a metal chair in front of the door and wedged it under the doorknob--not visible from the guards’ perspective. He stepped up to the hospital bed. After pulling the privacy curtain, Sherlock turned around and studied the face that had caused so much pain.

“Mr. Holmes, I was expecting Dr. Watson. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again--at least not in this world,” Smith said quietly, opening his eyes. “I can’t say that I feel bad about it though. Not too steady on your feet, are you?”

Sherlock removed the hood of the hazmat suit and swayed a bit, grasping the bed frame. “Steady enough,” Sherlock said with menace.

Smith sat up and gingerly swung his legs around. Sherlock knew it would be easy for Smith to overpower him in his weakened and drugged condition--a conclusion Smith had already determined.

Sherlock set the tote on the table next to the bed and with shaking hands, removed his gloves.

“Pupils dilated, shaking, favoring your side,” Smith said. “My, my, Mr. Holmes, you seem to be at an extreme disadvantage. What were you thinking coming here?”

“That I’m going to kill you.”

Smith laughed. “I don’t see a weapon. But we don’t always need them, do we? I do think it will be the other way around, however. After all, the road to eternal life is death,” Smith said with a sick smile.

“Yes, you’ve said that before,” Sherlock said. “I’m surprised I overlooked the obvious. Martyrs like Joan of Arc, Jesus, Ghandi have it. The good. And you? The evil. Cold-blooded like Mao Zedong, Genghis Khan, Stalin. You want to go down in history. The largest mass murder of all time. This would make you more notorious than Hitler. But if it’s the end of the world, who would know? Who would care? There’d be no one to read it, no one to record it,” Sherlock said, baiting him. He swayed again, and Smith’s lips twitched wickedly.

“Yes, but a few will survive to tell the tale--I altered man’s progress. I’ve already killed millions as we speak, and I’m about to add Sherlock Holmes to names of the dead. More than half of the planet--enough to create utter chaos,” Smith said. With that Smith flung himself at Sherlock, knocking the tote off the table and onto the floor, test tubes shattering and slivers of glass crunching beneath their feet as they struggled. Smith slammed his fist into Sherlock’s side, and grabbed for Sherlock’s throat.

The pain in Sherlock’s side was unspeakable, and with Smith’s fingers powerfully digging into his throat, Sherlock struggled not to lose consciousness. He couldn’t lose. It was all transport--he just needed to work through the crushing pressure in his side. Smith landed another blow into his ribs--the grinding sickened him. Flashes of lights, then all began to dim around him, and he grabbed the curtain.

He forced himself to remain. Think. Stay. Don’t disappoint John.

“No,” Sherlock managed to croak out, his own hand working to pry the fingers that clenched off his windpipe. Smith squeezed, tightening his death grip as the detective bore his nails into Smith and gouged his arm, making Smith swear and loosen his grip enough for Sherlock to wedge his arm between them. The curtain popped off its hooks as Sherlock spun his body and smashed his elbow into Smith’s nose with a satisfying crunch, but Smith still managed to keep a grip on Sherlock’s neck.

As Smith choked on his own blood, Sherlock seized the opportunity and raked his nails into Smith’s face. By now they’d caught the guards’ attention. The banging on the door added to the cry of pain from Smith as Sherlock dug another bloody trail with his fingernails down Smith’s left arm. Sherlock knew he only had seconds before he lost consciousness. He was experiencing arrhythmia, and worse he feared that Smith may already have torn the arteries in his neck. In that case, he was done. He drew on all the strength that remained inside him and stomped on Smith’s foot, then in a last desperate attempt, he rammed his knee into Smith’s crotch. Smith howled. Finally, the detective broke free, but not before ceremoniously grabbing Smith’s arm, pulling it up to his lips and giving it a long, slobbery swipe of his tongue.

“It shouldn’t be much longer for the onset,” Sherlock said, stumbling backward.

“What? What are you talking about! You’re lying!” Smith said, gasping.

“No?”  Sherlock noted that Smith was gasping as hard, if not harder, than himself. This was a good sign. “Then why am I still alive?” Sherlock said horsely, then paused and stepped back again. “It’s because I’m a carrier, like John. Therefore, you’re as good as dead.” Sherlock let those words sink into Smith. Sherlock touched his own throat. He could still feel Smith's hands there.

“No! Let me out of here! Get me away from this madman!” Smith yelled, turning toward the door, face red with fury.

Sherlock heard the door groaning and the chair scraping, yet holding, keeping the guards out of the room, but not long. His chest burned, each breath was drawn and sharp. No severed arteries. His own heart rate was increasing. But it was probable that Smith had forced a rib into his lung and punctured it.

“As you already know, blood contact speeds it along,” Sherlock said, stepping unsteadily into Smith’s space, yet blocking his way to the door. He smiled as he reached out to touch him again, and Smith backed away in horror. “And as for your cloud seeding, I’m afraid Mycroft squelched that. No mass annihilation. So sorry your little evil plan evaporated like your clouds. There was a time when I really wouldn’t have cared about the outcome. People didn’t matter to me. It was all about the game. Now it’s all about the people. Saving people.” Sherlock reached out for him again, fingers just brushing across Smith’s jaw. “But not you. I won’t save you.”

“Don’t touch me!” Sweat dripped down Smith’s brow, and he stumbled backward. “Don’t touch me!” The door behind them groaned as the guards threw their weight against it. The chair was beginning to bend and break. Smith hissed and sputtered in front of him. He couldn’t get his breath.

“I care. My dear friend, my blogger--that was the gift he gave to me--to care,” Sherlock continued. “You see, it matters more who remembers you, than how many. You don’t get that. And ironically after all you’ve done, you will die unremembered. History will forget you. Nobody will care when you’re dead. I, on the other hand, have my blogger, my biographer. People who care about me. I will be remembered. History will remember... _me_.”

Smith clutched at his chest, then fell to the floor.

Despite difficulty staying conscious, Sherlock managed to drag another chair to the door and braced it further. After all his trouble, Sherlock didn’t want someone coming in and using heroic measures to revive Smith. He decided he may as well put his gloves and hazmat hood back on while he waited.

12:38 a.m. The barricade proved a greater obstacle with the second chair. It took took a blowtorch to get in the door.

Mycroft was not happy. Either were the guards and medical personnel huddled around Smith.

“ _Pupils Unresponsive_.”

“ _No pulse. No respiration_.”

“ _Efforts to resuscitate in-effective_.”

“Yes, he’s dead,” Sherlock said, collapsed on the floor, arms crossed tight against his chest.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft asked, looking down at him.

“Heart attack,” Sherlock said. “Surprising since he had no heart.”

“This is not something to joke about,” Mycroft said.

“ _He_ attacked _me_.”

“You came _into his room_ ,” his brother countered.

“I was just visiting,” Sherlock said, hands shaking. He was feeling more nauseous and lightheaded by the moment. “It’s on camera.”

“Yes. On camera,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. “ _Again_.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but passed out backwards to the floor instead.

Over 10 hours later, Sherlock woke to the beep of the EKG. Again. Private room. No breathing tube at least. And he was spared John’s wrath for the time being--most likely because Mycroft stood at the foot of his bed waiting to interrogate him first, or more likely, get to him before John finished the job Smith started.

“Your careless regard for human life and need for vengeance could have exposed people needlessly to the antigen,” Mycroft said.

“Please, stop the melodrama and false sentiment. You don’t care about human life. And you already know I am not a carrier or of any harm to anyone except Culverton Smith. Every test over the last seven days has come back negative for allergens. We are clear, otherwise you’d be standing in front of me in a drab hazmat suit not donned in your tailored Gieves and Hawkes.”

“Well, we both know it pays to look our best. Best foot forward. And that said, precautions must be taken to look our best in other respects,” Mycroft said, stepping around the bed and closer to Sherlock.

“Exactly. Look at all the help you gave me. Mycroft, you aren’t an innocent it all this. It was much too easy and convenient for me to get to Smith. You let me. Your machinations as usual. I realized too late what the missing ambient sound was in this building: the hissing of forced air through the ventilation ducts. You’d somehow sealed off all ventilation to even the common rooms throughout the facility to contain any possible contamination--not that there was any possibility I’d spread the antigen.”

“My, you have such a vivid imagination, little brother.”

“You knew I’d deduced exactly what John was planning. He wanted his own revenge on Smith. John was meticulously planning it out. There is no way I could allow John to put himself in that position. He may feel no guilt for killing Smith, but the guilt he’d harbor for deserting his daughter if he was put in prison would destroy him. Not that I don’t have faith in your ability to sweep it under the rug. It wasn’t a chance I could take. As for myself, even if I was sent away for murdering Smith, John would blame himself. For some reason, he thinks I matter. I’ll never put him in that situation again, not when he so desperately needs my support.”

“So little brother, you made Smith assault you and terrified him to death?”

“ _Please_ , you wanted me to do it,” Sherlock said. “I repeat, you allowed my escape from the room. I questioned the ease even as I did it. You knew that it was a matter of time before John would be up and out of that bed and do what I did--only much messier. Even if he didn’t take matters into his own hands in this place, he’d do it sooner or later. He’d find Smith and kill him.”

“Therefore, you needed to rid the world of him through natural causes--you already deduced he had incurable heart disease.” Mycroft smiled at his brother in appreciation. “A rather tidy ending.”

“Yes, and it’s why you let me do it.  Although most likely too quick for John, but efficient nonetheless. Smith had some form of congenital heart defect, Ebstein’s Anomaly, I believe. Evident the first time we met, but confirmed before I ran off to rescue John at Kew Gardens.”

“John is very angry with you,” Mycroft said.

“I do hope so, or I wouldn’t have gone to this much bother.”

After his brother was stabilized, Mycroft moved Sherlock back into the room with John. After all, they needed each other. And some human sacrifice was in order.

John was angry. Sherlock was very happy that John was angry. And Mycroft was just confused that there was no bloodshed.


	17. Agitate My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set one year later and contains first birthday party preparations for Rosie and is my fix for Mary’s DVD fiasco for Final Problem. I'm giving a cuteness and angst warning. And look out for the shocking last sentence which punctuates this dénouement. Sherlock's POV for most part, with a touch of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! The chapter's early. Not much time to post beginning of next week, and it's done, so I'm posting now!

_ Almost one year later _

“Papa, Papa, Papa, Pa-a-a!” Rosie up from her nap called to Sherlock. He smiled wide as he picked up a teething ring off the floor and rinsed it in the sink. It was an honest smile. A happy smile. But also a smile with some regret. 

John was better, much better. He too was happy but filled with a few regrets. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. 

John would be home from the Clinic soon. Sherlock mused that although John still had a flexible schedule and found time to squeeze in cases, he worked most week days. Some cases were worthy of their time, others not so much. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were always up to watch Rosie for them while Sherlock’s parents were just as thrilled to watch her. John said that they took advantage of them too much, but Sherlock didn’t agree. They loved Rosie. She was a little bit Mary and a whole lot of John. Bubbly, bright and good-natured. She also inherited his fiery temper and saucy smile. 

Just as John had, Rosie transformed Sherlock’s life. He liked who he was, and he couldn’t always say that about himself. Why ever did he believe his brother that caring was not an advantage? Yes, all lives end, and all hearts are broken, and while Sherlock regretted that Mary died and John’s heart broke, he didn’t regret offering his heart in return, and he knew John didn’t either. But Sherlock believed that John did regret sleeping with Sherlock. Even if John could let go of what brief intimacy they shared, Sherlock still loved him and felt the same. And he loved Rosie. He would never regret loving them. It made him a better person, and that was an advantage.

Although one of his biggest regrets was not protecting Mary, what he regretted most was that John no longer felt for him the same way, be it guilt or sorrow or that he just realized that being “in love” with Sherlock was too difficult. All he got now from John were brief touches on the back, maybe a kiss on the top of the head, and pats on the hand. John loved him. He just didn’t “love” him.

Still, as he heard the “Papa, Papa” upstairs, his heart filled with wonder. The first time she called him that, John was there in the room. John was already “Da”--her very first word. But John never corrected her with the papa, never shied or showed surprise. When others heard “Papa,” they’d look at John, and he would give his slow, proud smile back. They never talked about what it meant, but Sherlock was grateful that John never denied him a special place in Rosie’s heart. That made Sherlock love him all the more. He could live without passion, but he couldn’t live without John or Rosie in his life.

And he was happy she’d encroached into every facet of his life--including 221B. Now that Rosie was walking, everything moved up another level. First level crawling. Anything on the floor must be unbreakable and unswallowable yet chewable. And of course, nothing poisonous. No test tubes or rubber stops. No discarded fingernails or eyeballs or the like.

Second level, standing. Sherlock considered sawing off the corners on tables after her first goose egg on her forehead (to which John said, “No, absolutely not”). The solution for Sherlock was to have Mycroft spring for round tables (no corners there!). Also after John’s laptop lost the war with the floor, no objects were left on tables that Rosie could reach. 

Next was level three, climbing. The baby gates aplenty were no longer impregnable as her skill set increased. No more knife in the mantel after she pushed a chair up to the side of it and tried to rock climb. Then the bookcases. The afternoon after Rosie began to scale one, Sherlock removed everything dangerous from them, then secured each with 8-inch wood screws he drilled into the studs of the walls. John said it was overkill. Sherlock said it was a necessary precaution to babyproof every bookcase in 221B. 

Now they were at level four, walking. As she was now completely mobile, nothing was off limits. Sherlock had been busy the past few days, installing baby locks in the upper cupboards and doors and moving anything remotely hazardous to the attic. 

And that’s what he’d been doing just before he’d heard her. She welcomed him, her arms outstretched as she bounced in place in her baby bed. She could easily climb out and did when she felt Papa or Da weren’t fast enough answering her demands. She giggled as Sherlock picked her up and twirled her around once before he changed her nappies. She grabbed her favorite stuffed bunny, Flopsy, before he carried her downstairs with the goal of entertaining her with a story before John got home. 

At the bottom of the steps, she shouted, “My! My!” 

Sherlock huffed. Mycroft stepped out of the kitchen. He’d stealthily made tea, which is a new talent he’d begun recently when coming to visit. He set his tea cup on the table and walked up to Sherlock and Rosie, and poked her in the belly with his finger, sending her into a chain of giggles. 

“Good afternoon, brother mine! And how is Rosie today!”

“Fine! Fine!” she said, kicking her feet. Sherlock set her down, and she raced up and wrapped her arms around Mycroft’s legs, saying, “Hi, My!” then ran off to climb on the couch, but not after grabbing her favorite book off the coffee table. “Read!”

“Quite a demanding little princess, isn’t she? Must be the time you’re spending with her has rubbed off.” 

Sherlock and Mycroft sat on either side of Rosie, who kicked her legs and flipped the pages in  _ Peter Rabbit _ , Rosie’s current obsession.

“Her birthday is in a few days. Hard to believe it’s been a year,” Mycroft said. “Our little lady has grown.”

Sherlock nodded his head and scratched his ear. “Mrs. Hudson’s is making a big chocolate cake,” Sherlock said, much more for Rosie’s benefit than Mycroft’s. “Mum and Dad will be here. John’s sister, Harry. And Molly.”

“And I will be here,” Mycroft said to Rosie. “I would never miss your birthday!”

“Please do,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “It’s beyond me why she likes you so much. It must be all the stuffed rabbits and books you bring over.”

“Hardly, little brother. You forget how much you idolized me as a child,” Mycroft said. “I rather think you still do, you just refuse to acknowledge it.” 

“You are what John calls an ass hat,” Sherlock said, crossing his legs. 

“Sherlock, there is a child about,” Mycroft said, covering Rosie’s ears. “Little pitchers!”

“Too late. She already learned that one from John.”

Mycroft stood and walked over to the mantel looking at Mary’s shrine. He drew his fingers across the photo frame of her--a candid shot Sherlock had taken of Mary in the soft light of morning in this very room. He’d framed and given it to John before the madness, before Magnussen. Sherlock knew that expression he’d captured on Mary's face far too well since he’d worn it so many times. Out of love. His brother then reverently turned and looked at her urn. Finally, with hands in his pockets, his eyes lingered on the gouges left by the knife, then he walked back to Sherlock. 

“And how is our doctor, or should I say how are things going with  _ your _ doctor?”

“Things?  _ Things _ ?! Not too articulate today. And you keep reminding me you’re the smart one.”

“Yes. But ambiguity has its purpose. I think it’s common sense that’s in question in reference to  _ things _ . In that case, both of you are lacking. Still pining for one another. It’s most tiresome to see you two dance around each other. I feel like I’m watching Swan Lake.”

“He’s not pining for me.”

He looked down at Sherlock. “Ha! You admit you’re pining for him.” 

“Call it what ever you like,  _ Mycroft _ .”

“Re-la-tion-ship. Honestly, Sherlock, if you insist on having one, at least do it right. Talk to him.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes. There is,” he said, sitting back down between them. “It has been a year--an anniversary of sorts. More than Rosie’s birthday.”

“You think I don’t know that?! I will never forget that day. He’ll never forget that day.”

_Mary, Mary, Mary._ Sherlock thought, _John is like an elephant. He never forgets. The nightmares may have disappeared, but not the everlasting funeral that marches around his heart.*_  


“He loves you, Sherlock. He’s still mourning, but he loves you.”

“I don’t believe  _ you _ are giving me a lecture on love--or that you’d even want to give me one.”

“I didn’t really. Mummy made me.”

“Well, then I’m especially not going to talk about it with you!”

“Stubborn as always!”

They both fumed silently and Rosie, seeing her opening, thrust the book at Mycroft and said, “Read!”

  
“Very well, little one. It seems I’m getting nowhere with ‘Papa.’ At least someone here will listen to me.”

With that Sherlock heard  _ The Tale of Peter Rabbit _ for the tenth time that week before John came home and rescued him.   


\-------------------

The next morning Sherlock sipped his coffee, watched as Rosie played with her Thomas the Train set on the floor and reviewed a couple of possible promising cases left on his site that he’d needed to follow up on. He spent the morning watching and playing with Rosie, doing online research and conducting a simple (and safe) experiment. He’d held off turning on the Telly until after lunch and just before nap time. 

He’d just put Rosie down when he heard a familiar knock at the door. 

“Come in, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. He was always pleased to see Greg, who had come more and more frequently over the last four months. Lestrade had been careful regarding the cases he’d thrown them, only offering the most compelling and challenging. The first few months after Mary’s death, he’d only showed up once. He had a particularly horrendous case, a serial killer who selected teenage girls and boys with no apparent pattern, then stabbed and bludgeoned them until they were unrecognizable as human. It took Sherlock seven days to break the case. Lestrade didn’t call on him for over a month after that. Later he told Sherlock it was something Donovan said to him afterward: That she would never call him a freak again. That the case had “affected” Sherlock. That Sherlock had cried.

Sherlock knew it wasn’t the case. What changed him happened two months prior. He would never be the same and neither would John. 

He had someone who depended on him. Someone helpless. Someone he loved. Someone who in 13 years could have been one of those kids. Rosie.

So from that time forward, whenever Lestrade walked into 221B, Sherlock was a different kind of choosy. He wanted cases that mattered as much as cases that commanded intellect.

Sherlock looked at the folder in Lestrade’s hand. “So, what do you have?” Sherlock asked. “There have been a few prominent cases in the news. What is it? diamond thief? husband and wife murdered execution style? or is it that pesky Peeping Tom? You’d think that wouldn’t be such an issue, the videos the voyeur has posted online have caused quite a scandal.”

“Not any of those, Sherlock. This is something private. Delicate. They want you. Asked for you. And it pays well. But it’s hush, hush.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Not some Earl or Viscount misusing public funds or blackmail for some past discretion? He took the folder and flipped through it quickly. It wasn’t what he thought it would be. It was...intriguing. Unusual thefts (and more than likely possible deaths) in Cardiff hospitals. A level 9, possibly 10.

“They want you there immediately. It would require you to go to the University of Wales tonight. You’d be gone at least three days to a week--depending on how long it took you. For you--I’d wager three days. Pay’s the same no matter how long it takes. It’s a nice tidy sum.”

“Yes it is,” Sherlock said, handing the folder back. “But I’m afraid I can’t take it, as lucrative and challenging as it is.”

Lestrade stared at him with his mouth open for a moment. “Sherlock! But why? It’s perfect!”

“Yes, but the timing isn’t. Tomorrow is Rosie’s birthday.”

“What if I tell them you’ll come Thursday. Then you can be with her on her birthday, eat cake, and still take the case.”

“Greg, you forget what happened a year ago. I can’t leave. I won’t leave.”

“How could I… I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t think. I’m sure we can find someone else. Not near as good or as thorough or as fast as you, but someone else.” He slapped the folder against his leg berating himself. “Sorry. I’ll just see myself out.”

Sherlock nodded and watched him shut the door. Thirteen months ago, he would have take the case.

A half an hour later, Mrs. Hudson called up and said there was some mail for them along with one large envelope marked “Special Delivery.” Sherlock picked up the mail,  walked through the living room and sorted through it. He stopped when he came to a white, padded envelope. He sat down at the couch set it on the coffee table, frowning at the absence of a return address. Leaving the package on the table, Sherlock got up and circled the room--the table and package his focus. Before he returned to the couch, he picked up the envelope, turning it over and over in his hands. Then he returned it to the table only to pace around the room again. Finally, mind made up, he opened it carefully, turning it upside down. Inside a clear, plastic wallet slipped out and inside that wallet was a white DVD. He knew that handwriting. Written on the disc were the words: “MISS YOU.”

Sherlock got up and paced around the room for four minutes more before calling John.   


“I think you’d better get right home. Something came in the mail.”

\---------------------------

John sat next to Sherlock on the couch, fists clenched white. He swallowed hard as Sherlock slipped the DVD into his laptop. “How?” John asked.

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock nervously tapped the play button on John’s laptop, and Mary’s face filled the screen. “If you’re watching this, I’m...probably dead. For about a year now.”

“Oh, God,” John said and with a shaky hand, reached over and tapped the pause button. He rubbed his face with his hands, then turned to Sherlock after he’d composed himself a bit. John nodded for Sherlock to continue.

“I know you two; and if I’m gone, I know what you could become...because I know who you really are, and who you really love. I know you miss me, John, but the time has come to let me go. I’m honored that you took this time to mourn for me, but you must move on and begin to live again.”   


Sherlock watched his friend’s eyes well up, tears spill down his cheeks, and choke back sobs while fighting his own swell of emotion inside. 

“Don’t think anyone else is going to save either of you; I don’t think anyone else can. You must save each other, because there isn’t anyone else. It’s up to you both. But I do think you’re going to need a little bit of help with that, because both of you aren’t exactly good talking about how you feel--especially you, Sherlock. So Sherlock, here’s a few things you need to know about the man we both love–-and more importantly, what you’re going to need to do to save him. Tell him you want him. Tell him you need him. Show him.”

Sherlock stole a look at John, who was covering his face.

“Save John Watson,” Mary said, her eyes now were all that was on the screen. “And love him…Love, John Watson.”

“I always have,” Sherlock blinked and whispered to Mary. “Always will.”

“And John,” Mary continued. “Save Sherlock. You know that emptiness you feel inside right now? He feels it too. Maybe more. Don’t be afraid to tell him you’re in love with him. Show him you love him. Save each other. Know that I will always love you both. I want you to both be happy, and we all know that only way that will ever happen is with each other, my Baker Street Boys.”

The video ended and the both stared at the blank screen.

“I guess we both have a lot to think about,” John said.

“Think about. Yes, John, we do.”

“I need to go upstairs. Check on Rosie.”

“Yes. Go upstairs. Check on Rosie.”

Sherlock watched unable to say what was in his heart. But he would. He must. Maybe when John came back downstairs. He waited. But he never came back down. 

\--------------

John turned over and slapped his pillow for possibly the one-hundredth time that night. He closed his eyes and Mary appeared. He opened them and she was there. Her words filled his head. Wasted time. Wasted promises. Wasted dreams. John’s sleepless night seemed eternal. John thought about Mary’s words and what they meant. And what they could mean.

Yes. He loves Sherlock. Yes he wants Sherlock. He hadn’t stopped wanting Sherlock. But since Mary left, every time he reached out, an unsurmountable wall appeared and separated them. 

Sure the wall was one part guilt. He felt like he was betraying her memory. His vows. But it was more than that. When Mary had given them “permission” like a couple of children, John never thought it sincere. At the time, he doubted and couldn’t stop feeling she offered only because it was her only choice. Sherlock believed her sincerity. Although he was “the genius detective,” he wasn’t the one married to her. John decided the problem was simply more than permission or want or even guilt. The answer? It just wasn’t right. He was a widower. While he didn’t give a rat’s arse about propriety, he felt that he had owed it to Mary, to Rosie, to himself and to Sherlock to honor his vows and his marriage. To pay respect. Time was what he’d needed. It was the decent thing to do. 

That time had passed. 

Rosie’s birthday was tomorrow. A year since she’d gone. A year ago, he’d worried that Mary’s death would always overshadow Rosie’s birth, but now he knew, it wouldn’t. It never would. Her name was perfect: She rose like the sun and illuminated his life. Her birthday was a celebration. A year. He needed that time to heal, no matter how solid or real or strong the relationship was, a person needed time and space. 221B and his room upstairs was that space. The day he moved back in was the happiest he’d felt since Mary died. So many times during the months he’d wanted to come down the stairs, go to Sherlock’s bed, touch him. Be with him. But John couldn’t do it.

He should do it. It was time.

John rolled over and sighed. He had to admit there was another reason why he wasn’t walking down those stairs right this moment. 

He was afraid. 

**\-----------------------------**

Sherlock paced the living room. It was 2 a.m. and he couldn’t stop. His Mind Palace was useless! John and Mary occupied every room!

He walked to the mantel and looked into the skull’s eye sockets. Once upon a time, this skull was his only friend. He picked up his old friend, smiled sadly, then said: “Alas, poor  _ Yorick _ ! I knew him.” A lie. He never knew the man behind the empty eyes anymore than he knew who Mary really was. It seemed fitting that they sat side-by-side on the mantel. He picked up her urn, then set it down.

He’d thought of nothing but going upstairs to John all evening. Climbing next to him. Losing himself to his passions. Hadn’t Mary said that Sherlock should show him? But he’d hoped that John would come to him. In the end, he’d come to the distinct conclusion that both of them were cowards.

He looked at the stairs longingly. He wanted him. The thought of what it was once like to feel John’s touch haunted him. He couldn’t get away from what it sounded like when John moaned his name or the taste of his lips. He could never forget what it was like to hold each other like they were the only two souls left on earth. But they weren’t. That was the problem. Rosie was in John’s room. And Mary was in this one.

“And there’s the rub,” Sherlock said to the skull and Mary’s ashes. 

However, there was one other reason that Sherlock didn’t climb up those stairs right that minute and fuck John Watson into the mattress despite it all--something was off about that DVD. He reviewed it in his Mind Palace: When had she made it? How had she arranged it? How was it sent? Who sent it?  He kept coming up with the same answer.

And then there what she’d said. And what she didn’t say. He didn’t want to keep his conclusions from John, and not telling John would be breaking a promise that he would never keep something important from him again, yet if he told him what he suspected, Sherlock didn’t know what John would do. How he would react. 

The implications of his conclusion left no doubt: There had to be a collusion, and Sherlock knew who it was with. The same person who’d helped him. The same person who always put up the smoke and mirrors. 

Mycroft.

No matter what room in his Mind Palace he went into, no matter what stairway he climbed there, no matter what corner he looked into, he always found himself facing to the same place and conclusion.

Mary wasn’t dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter remains. (has sad tears and glad tears). Thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> *John Proctor’s words to Elizabeth in _The Crucible_


	18. Those Pale Irretrievables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter in which, in this alternate S4 universe we 1) find out how Mary sent the DVD; 2) get an answer to “the kiss” that didn’t happen; 3) have a birthday party declaration and 4) eat cake followed by hot monkey sex.

It was four in the morning. Sherlock needed answers. He texted the only person who could give them to him. Dressed neat in trousers, black silk shirt, he grabbed his coat and scarf. On the street and ready to hail a cab to confront Mycroft, a black sedan pulled up instead. 

“That was fast,” he said, getting in.

“I knew you would want answers. I saved us both time,” Mycroft said. 

“Almost like you were watching. I hope that isn’t the case.”

“Really, Sherlock. I do afford you  _ some _ privacy.”

“The DVD,” Sherlock began, raising his eyebrow.

“Yes, Mary’s video,” Mycroft continued. “I knew it arrived and what it contained. Please, don’t hold back…I see you are itching to tell me what you already think you know.”

“The video was made either early in her pregnancy or just before,” Sherlock began in his best bored tone. “Mary’s hair is similar, close to what it was before her death, but it’s a bit longer, her face thinner. I’d say before she even knew she was pregnant since she doesn’t mention Rosie once. And the lighting contained natural elements; therefore, not filmed at the Institution. Yes. Had to be before. And you agreed to help her. Why?”

“Simple. I was helping you, my little brother. She made the same appeal you made to me. She asked me to help her protect those she loved: her baby, John and you. She knew adding you would help her cause, but she also knew I’d see through it. But there  _ was _ sincerity there. A mother’s strongest instinct is to save her child--even, it seems, a paid assassin. So, she did what you did to protect those she loved--asked me to help her fake her death. She knew I would go along since with the plan since if either John or the child were hurt, she and I both knew how that the outcome would affect you.”

Sherlock nodded.

“She said she’d never be free of her past. She’d be discovered. It was only a matter of time before one of the many enemies she’d made came for her. But it was the danger to the child that concerned her most. She worried through her entire pregnancy. In those final days, that is why she was so frantic to get John and you out of the way. It would be simpler to pull off. Then Calverton Smith stepped in.”

“She made the video before she shot me.”

“Yes, she thought she could stay with John. Until Magnussen. Then she shot you. I rescinded the deal of course. However, you forgave her. I, however, did not. Then after you shot Magnussen, she came to me again. I agreed this time. For your sake. The plan changed one final time when Culverton Smith appeared. She was no longer safe. We couldn’t protect her or the baby. The institution afforded that protection.”

“Irene knew,” Sherlock said.

“Yes.”

“But Mary never mentions Rosie,” Sherlock said.

“The omission was discussed at length. We were unable to determine the sex of the child at 18 weeks, but that was not the only reason. What if something were to have really happened to her during pregnancy? It was a real possibility that she faced. From the start of the plan, it was her hope to have the child, and then to make it seem she died during childbirth--however, she was a practical woman. We made the video without mention of the child, as she said, ‘Just in case.’ It wasn’t that she did not think of her child.”

“So she’s still out there, alive. And I’m supposed to just not say a thing to John?” Sherlock asked. “I can’t do that.”

“It is not lie,” Mycroft said, not without a bit of regret. “She was killed. Not _ when _ you thought, not  _ how  _ you thought, but she  _ did _ die. John doesn’t  _ need  _ to know this deception. I think it best to spare him that. It is what Mary wanted.”

“What Mary wants and what John needs are not compatible in this case. He needs the truth.”

Mycroft laughed. “Truth? What irony! You haven’t told him you are in love with him!”

“That is _ not  _ true. I have. I am. And I will again. And why oh why are  _ you _ even suggesting I entertain the idea of sentiment after you’ve told me time and again it’s not an advantage.”

“Because, dear brother, I have too long been hiding from it as well.”

Sherlock sat dumbstruck. 

“Mummy gave me quite the lecture,” Mycroft said, lip curled up a bit in a sneer.

“Of course, Mummy.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back and looked up.

“I hate admitting that she could be correct. Along with her usual lecture on my own ‘lack of a partner or giving her a grandchild,’ she blamed me for much of your inability to form a romantic relationship with Doctor Watson; therefore, she told me it was up to me to as she said, ‘Set it right and take some responsibility for what I’ve done.’ And, forgive me, I’m repeating Mummy’s words: ‘If he doesn’t get his head out of his arse, I will kick it out for him.’ Frankly Sherlock, I don’t think either of us has a choice in the matter. I will never hear the end of it from her if you don’t.”

Sherlock simply nodded. One more question nagged at him that had to be answered before he went back inside 221B.

“I need to know. How? How did Mary die?” 

“Quick and relatively painless compared to her fabricated demise. It was poetic, really, although you may not believe it so. A shot through the heart.” Mycroft sighed, and looked over at his brother. “Mary is on your mantel. We replaced the other ashes with hers. You really should get better locks.” 

“Not that it would ever stop you.” Sherlock wondered if he was lying. Again. With Mycroft’s machinations, one could never be sure.

Sherlock could not afford to lie. He had far too much to lose. Saying nothing to John was not an option. No putting it off, he would need to do it soon. Tomorrow. After the party.

\---------------------------

John spent so much time getting ready for Rosie’s party that he couldn’t think about Mary or Sherlock--or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.

_ Liar. Liar. Pants on Fire. _

In reality, it filled the back of his mind as he wrapped gifts, blew up colorful balloons, hung happy birthday banners and ran tirelessly up and down the stairs to check on Mrs. Hudson’s progress with Rosie’s four layer chocolate cake. 

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

An hour before the party, he came down to check one last time to see how Mrs. Hudson was coming with the cake. Days ago when John said he didn’t think what flavor of cake mattered, Sherlock insisted it did, and Mrs. Hudson chimed in that chocolate cake made for the best birthday pictures. It seemed a child covered in head-to-toe chocolate made for lasting photographic memories.

He’d finished getting Rosie ready. All bathed and hair shiny and dressed in her new outfit  that Sherlock bought her : a  Dolce and Gabbana floral print dress with white tights and pink patent Gucci shoes adorned with bumblebees--the outfit probably costed more than half John’s entire wardrobe, and he’d complained loudly when Sherlock bought it. He had to admit, however, that Sherlock was right--she did look adorable in it. 

Carrying Rosie on his hip, he walked downstairs into Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen where she was just finishing up frosting the cake with Sherlock leaning his back against the counter watching.  The second she spied the spatula, she reached out both hands in anticipation. 

“Why hello, John. And there’s our birthday girl! You look so precious in that dress! We wouldn’t want to spoil it. No licking it clean this time, missy. You’ll have to wait for your party!”

“And then not without a bib,” John said. Rosie pouted but John distracted her with Flopsy.

“I have to do the piping yet, but nothing too fancy,” she said, pointing to smaller bowls of frosting setting on her counter. “Just a few flowers and her name with ‘happy birthday’ on it,” she added, wiping her hands on a towel before picking up the spatula and scraping the large bowl clean of chocolate frosting. 

“There you go, Sherlock,” she said, handing Sherlock the chocolate coated spatula. Rosie was too into making faces at her bunny to notice the slight. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John before taking a slow, long, sensuous lick of frosting. John swallowed hard and licked his own bottom lip as he watched. 

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. “Well dears, I’d be more than happy to watch Rosie for you both this evening if two would like some alone time.”

Both answered at once. Sherlock with “Yes” and John with “No,” then immediately Sherlock took a second long lick, and John amended his response to “Maybe.” After the third, it was a “Yes.”     


John limped back up the stairs with Rosie, wishing he was the spatula.

\-------------------

The party was everything John hoped. There were no shadows only light. The Holmes family unashamedly showered Rosie with gifts and hugs. Molly and Harry both did the same. Even Greg Lestrade came in fashionably late carrying a neatly-wrapped package with a bright-orange bow.

Mrs. Hudson had outdone herself decorating the cake: delicate cream piping with perfectly executed violets and roses finished with a “Happy Birthday, Rosie” in Mrs. Hudson’s elegant script. 

Sherlock put the head-to-toe industrial bib on Rosie before “Happy Birthday to you” rang out. Sherlock’s and Mr. Holmes’ rich and baritones harmonized and made the song into something special. Sherlock helped her blow out the candles. The whole while John admired them both, and filled with love seeing them together. Yes, this day all  _ was _ all about love. Sure the gifts were a bit much, but it was the love and thought behind each that counted--from Molly’s gift of  _ Real Mother Goose _ rhymes to Mycroft’s Steiff hobby horse. Sherlock and John both opened the gifts together with Rosie. A symbolic act, John supposed.

Molly took photos with her camera of Rosie covered in chocolate along with snapping other candid shots. Mrs. Hudson and Molly helped serve the cake while John mingled with the guests as he picked up the scraps of wrapping paper, ribbons, and tape off the floor left behind. Meanwhile, Sherlock unleashed Rosie on the gifts, then ate two pieces of cake and cleaned up the crumbs with his fingers. John laughed to see Mycroft on the floor with Rosie laying new track for Thomas the Train and Friends to chug down.

“You didn’t take the case. It was a good one too,” John said, stepping next to Sherlock with a handful of wrapping paper. “Greg told me. He said you didn’t want to miss Rosie’s birthday.” 

Sherlock pulled off a piece of tape stuck to the shoulder of John’s jumper. 

“I wanted to be here. There is no place I would rather be than here with you and Rosie.”

John felt himself get all choked up. The last thing he wanted to do was become a blubbering mess at Rosie’s party.

Sherlock took his free hand and didn’t let go. John stared down at their hands together. They looked right with Sherlock’s thumb caressing his knuckles. Across the room, John saw Mummy Holmes wink at Mycroft. The room stopped. Silence. 

Sherlock spoke--his deep voice a clear declaration to the room. But most of all, he spoke to John. “I’m here because I love you,” he said. After, Sherlock just looked into his eyes and smiled. 

It was that simple. 

If there hadn’t been a roomful of people, John would have kissed him. 

Instead John hugged him, and Sherlock hugged him tight back, wrapping paper be damned. When they separated, Sherlock’s face was as wet as his.

The party broke up quickly after that. Everyone said their goodbyes and kissed Rosie and thanked John and Sherlock for a wonderful time. Mrs. Hudson and Molly along with Mr. and  Mrs. Holmes secured the birthday girl with some of her new loot, and took her downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s for a bit of play before dinner and bed, leaving Sherlock and John alone in 221B. 

The room was still cluttered with boxes and toys and bags filled with colorful ribbons and wadded up giftwrap. John bent down to start picking up when Sherlock tugged on the back of his jumper.

“It can wait,” Sherlock said.

John’s mouth quirked up in reply as he straightened up. The man was perfect standing there with his sharp cheekbones and pouty bow lips and refined jawline. “You’re right. It can wait.”

“I, however, can not wait,” Sherlock said, tremor and tenor of his voice reflecting a passion and want deep within them both. He held out his hand, and John took it.

Like chemical reaction, the color of Sherlock’s eyes turned from impossible sea-green to dark emerald.

John felt afraid and not sure why. After all this, he shouldn’t be. Of course, Sherlock saw it, felt it. He always did.

“I am yours. I will always be yours,” Sherlock said, brushing his thumb against John’s hand, reassuring him. “All of of me. I’m not leaving you.”

“Promise.” 

“I promise,” Sherlock said, squeezing his hand tight. “To my dying day and beyond, I will always be with you. I love you.”    


John felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. Honesty. He needed it. Sherlock needed it. It was time. “Since that first day we met,” John began, “I’ve... I’ve always been...in love with you. I’ll never doubt it or deny it again. Never again.” 

John let Sherlock pull him toward his room. Inside that space, Sherlock’s room seemed larger, the bed higher, the books stacked taller. Everything held more. John thought, maybe it was his heart that made the aura of the room so, so magical.

As the early light filtered across his pillows, Sherlock nudged him back, wrapped his arms around John and pressed their lips together. A soft kiss. Testing. Not needy. One. Then two. He sat John shakily on the edge of his bed. His eyes wide, they raked over Sherlock standing in front of him as he stripped off his posh shirt and trousers. He stepped forward with a confidence John was not feeling and straddled him, then trapped him in place on the bed. Smoldering lips parted and liquid eyes unwavering, Sherlock leaned in ever-so-slowly for another kiss. This time the kiss wanted more from him. It ached with need. That mouth. He opened those lips, full parted lips with tongue. Ever the explorer and the scientist, Sherlock tasted him, assessed him, cataloged him. He pushed John back flat on to his bed, and John let Sherlock unbutton his shirt. It was impossible. This. 

John thought,  _ How the fuck can he do that? Make me so hard, so fast? And just from that wet mouth? _

“John, you’re thinking. Stop.” 

“ _ You’re _ telling  _ me _ to stop thinking?” John said incredulously. 

“Yes. For me it’s an asset, for you not so much.” 

“Try and think now, you wanker,” he said as he palmed Sherlock’s cock through his silk pants. As if to answer, “ _ I’ll teach you _ ,” Sherlock lined up their erections perfectly and let the friction between them ignite as he rubbed length against length. 

“I do NOT want to think,” Sherlock said, as he leaned down, his mouth pressed to John’s ear. “Not now. I want you. Inside me. John. I need you inside me. Please fuck me. Make my thoughts stop. I only want you in them. You.”

“God, yes.” John flipped Sherlock with such ease that it even caught himself by surprise. He loved the look of utter shock on Sherlock’s face as he flipped and pinned the beautiful man to the bed and rocked against him. “Having a hard time speaking? Hmmm?”

Sherlock nodded and gave him a sincerely grateful smile.

“Let’s make it even harder to speak, to think,” John said, palming the detective’s cock, then slipping his hand inside his pants. John loved the feel of Sherlock’s cock. For a man who so often denied his own sexual urges, John celebrated the euphoria of Sherlock writhing and moaning with abandon on the sheets.  _ He _ was causing this.  _ John Watson _ . Sherlock Holmes, this man who he’d thought above all this passion and promises, groaned. This contradiction, begged. A puzzle. He was beauty and strength and weakness all in one. The same dichotomy as the man himself was in the most primitive of elements: His sex. His cock was silky and hard, hot and wet, long and lean. 

It’s not as difficult to do this as John thought it’d be--to make the man, Sherlock, a mess. Mouthing his cock through his silk pants, wet with spit and precum, he used his teeth and lips to have the man beneath bleat and plead. To call out John’s name was like some kind of rapturous music. After John pushed Sherlock’s pants down, Sherlock kicked them off and onto the floor. It was glorious to see Sherlock look down at his own cock so close to John’s lips and see the want in his eyes. John let his hot breath caress the cock, and Sherlock bucked and clawed the sheets as John teased him with long lick from base to head. He unashamedly humped Sherlock’s thigh through his jeans. As he took Sherlock into his mouth, long agile fingers combed through his silver-blonde hairs and tugged. 

“God, John, this is agony,” Sherlock said, roughly. He struggled as he reached over to the bedside table. “What part of ‘ _ I want you inside me _ ’ didn’t you understand?”

Sherlock flipped John the bottle of lube, then reached for him and finished unbuttoning John’s shirt. He slid his fingers, brushing the scar on his shoulder, then tugged his shirt off. John felt a rich, warmth in his belly. Sherlock wanted to see him. All of him. Large hands worked his fly and had his jeans off in moments. His hips thrust in air, disappointed at the loss of friction. Then disappointment left as into his white cotton briefs, slid magic tapered fingers that toyed with his cock. It was Sherlock’s turn to unravel John.    


He felt the rhythm of his heart throb in his own dick as Sherlock stroked him leisurely. Still, it was too much. He didn’t want to come. Not yet. He wanted what Sherlock asked for: to be inside him, to fuck him.

The lube. He uncapped it. Slathered it on his fingers, and reached between them. 

Life blood pumping and joining with Sherlock’s, hearts beating together. A finger inside feeling the pulse of passion. He was tight and close and sin. Deep down from his soul, Sherlock moaned. Such heat. John teased the sensitive spot that turned Sherlock into an ethereal insatiable creature. 

When Sherlock could stand no more, John coated and slicked himself. Nudged his thick cock against the entrance with Sherlock legs up and over his shoulders. Kissed those porcelain knees, stretched down to kiss that sly mouth. Breached him. Then pushed inside. 

It was heaven. It was hell. It was the man he’d forgiven and followed for through heaven and hell. He rocked against Sherlock. And he fucking cried.

When Sherlock came, John watched him in awe--a masterpiece composed and painted. John came after, not with the splendor or grace that he witness beneath him, but instead with a fulfillment and empowerment he’d never known until that moment.

He couldn’t find the words to say how much it meant. How much Sherlock meant to him. How could there ever be words for a feeling great as this?

He pulled Sherlock close. 

Still something needed to be said.

“I loved her,” John said. “But you...you were always there. You are a part of me.”

“I understand that, John. You are a part of me too. An inescapable, stalwart, immovable and essential part me I can no longer live without. It would be living without my heart. I did that for far too long. I wouldn’t survive life without you. I came so close to not surviving.”

“We both have.”

John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand in his, then kissed it. “I don’t think I’d ever want to go there again,” John said, looking over Sherlock. 

“No, me either.”

“And on a more concrete note, I never want to see that infernal Institution or Kew Gardens again either.” 

“But John! The Kew Gardens has a bumblearium!”    


“There are other places that have bumbleariums. We can go to them,” John said.

“True, someday when we retire to the country together, we can have a garden filled with bees.” 

John’s heart, the one he thought was broken for so long, swelled with love for the man. His man. 

“How about some tea?” Sherlock suggested, sitting up and reaching for his robe. John would have liked to have held him a bit longer, but tea did sound good. Afterall, the bed would still be there when they returned.

They fit just as well together preparing tea in the kitchen as in the bedroom, John mused. After, they sat at the table, just as amiably, and sipped tea. 

“John, I have something to tell you,” Sherlock said, eyes serious and searching John’s. “I didn’t want to tell you earlier. Not in our bed. But now. I promised. We promised. It’s not something you’re going to be at all happy to hear, but no more secrets.”

John’s stomach fell at those words. So much for an amiable cup of tea.

John knew he shouldn’t have been surprised since he’d been through this before, but as always Sherlock’s straightforward approach was a bit “not good.” Opening with the words “ _ First let me assure you that Mary is indeed dead _ ” weren’t really good or necessary. Although as Sherlock unfolded the story, maybe they were.

It as a bit anticlimactic. John should have been angry. Furious. But he wasn’t. What he was, was relieved. He paced the room with Sherlock watching.

He supposed he already suspected. That it was in the back of his mind, just as in that first year after Sherlock was “dead” he suspected Sherlock wasn’t. Then one year lead to two. And two to three. Even later, when Greg brought Sherlock’s birthday DVD to him, he’d wondered and hoped for Sherlock to come back at the knock of the door. And then there came Mary. And he tried to let go. Replace that missing piece of his heart.

It was hard to let go. He’d wanted to do it. He realized at his very own wedding, that he never really did.

Sherlock had waited. Waited and watched and waited some more. 

Sherlock never once let go of him. No, letting go of Mary wasn’t the same. She was his wife; someone there when he’d needed, someone to hold on to. And he’d held on. Out of respect. Out of love. Out of honor. But how can you let go of something you never truly had?

It was always Sherlock. 

They both stood in the middle of the living room, inches apart. He never wanted to be inches apart for very long again.

“Thank you,” John said, pulling at Sherlock’s robe to bring him closer. “Thank you for telling me. Thank you for waiting for me, and thank you for loving me.” He hugged him and kissed Sherlock’s hair. He let go of Sherlock, straightened his back, and walked up to the fireplace.

“Goodbye, Mary,” he whispered, then John took off his ring and set it next to the urn on the mantel.

_ The End _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you to everyone. It's been great getting to know the Johnlock community, and becoming a contributing fanfic writer in it. I look forward to writing more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks my beta and also, excellent writer too...Lieutenant Wolf, who graciously stepped in to beta my dyslexic writing and Brit pic for me in chapters 1-13. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
> 
> However, chapters after 13 are not beta'd.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who reads my story (and all my other past stories linked here). All comments and kudos are cherished, cuddled and appreciated.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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